Uncategorized

I recently had the honor of speaking to an association of financial executives at their monthly keynote event at a beautiful wedding venue in Denver. I was excited to share a different perspective on leadership for this modern, post-pandemic era and figured that, being a financial executive myself for 20 years, they’d consider me one of them and be open to exploring something different. You see, the traditional leadership model throughout most of Corporate America for at least the last 50 years – and especially in financial services – has been based on Fear and Intimidation: you did what you were told and what you thought about it was your problem. The Human stayed home while the Cog made the Company machine their priority.

We had a lively first 20 minutes, trading stories of horrific leadership mishaps from our careers, commiserating about poor management and woeful misbehavior. It seemed obvious to me that we were on the same page, that we had all been mistreated or witnessed first-hand the mistreatment of others … until I got into the crux of my presentation. If we, instead, respect and treat each other as the humans we are, the results will be exponentially better than under the old carrot-stick and whip environments we ‘grew up’ in. The room went silent.

Honestly, I’m still a bit shocked at the push-back I received once we got to the Q&A. I see the Great Resignation as an obvious rebellion against inhumane treatment at the hands of corporate overlords. They simply couldn’t understand how 4 million Americans would forgo traditional employment in the hopes of finding something more fulfilling. Are Humans simply the Labor input in a Cost of Goods Sold computation? I find that offensive.

I explained that we are witnessing a global power shift from employer to employee, and if they didn’t come around, all those vacant cubicles would stay empty. They didn’t see it that way. To them, it was a battle of wills. Eventually the hold outs would need to eat, and come crawling back.

I described how the Millennials and Gen Z – who grew up witnessing us as their burned out, abused, depressed parents – wanted more out of their brief time on Earth and weren’t willing to settle for being treated like merely a means to production. Not only did they not buy it, they mocked their own children for being lazy whiners … like, who’s fault would that be, anyway? Is it really a bad thing to put your joie de vivre ahead of corporate profits? Is that really why we’re on this planet, to keep the wheels of Capitalism rolling? That’s horse shit. Don’t believe the stories.

I used my 23-year old daughter as an example of how the ‘kids’ these days are not willing to undergo mental abuse because ‘that’s the way it’s always been.’ They couldn’t understand why she didn’t just do her job… heck, they did!

And that’s the problem. I think sometimes when people are victimized – especially when they don’t realize that’s what’s happening – it’s an easy Ego play to feel others deserve the same (“This made me stronger, just wait until they see what it does for them”). They forget how marginalized they felt the first dozen or so times it happened to them. They’ve been numbed over the course of their career to expect this abusive behavior; to accept that they deserve it. They’ve even learned to believe it was good for them, made them stronger, or better, or successful. It’s a lie we have to force ourselves to believe in order to trudge along… and it can be used to justify treating others the same.

But using Fear and Intimidation to coerce expected behavior is never acceptable. You’re not even supposed to train your dog that way.

It reminds me of the old fraternity days: I was hazed and survived, therefore, I will haze the next suckers. We used to think if we forced a group of new recruits to hate us sufficiently, they would bond into a cohesive unit. And if we did it just right, they’d have enough respect for the perpetrators to feel part of the larger group once they made it through the gauntlet. Sometimes it worked, oftentimes it didn’t. Turns out it’s not that easy to get a bunch of negatives to come around to something positive. And the group-think seemed to make it all ok.

The corporate world that I experienced wasn’t a whole lot different … probably helps explain why I was relatively successful there – I had had the fraternal pre-training.

And then I learned of a more Human way to lead, one where leadership means facilitation, not direction. Where humans are allowed to be human and respected for their lived experiences and individual contributions. Where we’re not ‘bent to the wheel’ but encouraged to think outside the veritable box.

This is why I take leaders into the wilderness. When none of the social constructs we’ve (perhaps unknowingly) grown to rely on are absent, we’re forced out of the box to learn what’s waiting for us in that space: wisdom, inspiration, creativity, love. What it means to be human, really. It’s amazing that in a place where there is scant trace of other humans, you can find empathy for humanity. It’s hard NOT to be kind when you’ve felt that.

When I spoke of this the other night, it was incorrectly assumed that I suggested we need to coddle employees and stand at the ready with a big hug. That if the (typically) white- (typically) man-in-charge wasn’t cracking the whip, then the office would degenerate into a Daycare Center by lunch. In essence, that humans didn’t have enough self-respect and self-discipline to show up and do their job. Fear and Intimidation was the only way.

There is something in between, of course … there always is. Treating people as fellow humans does NOT mean treating them as children – that’s the patriarchy we’re finally coming to see clearly as the bane of our current system.

To accept that we humans are really all the same, regardless of our station, is to accept an equality between us as individuals: that a billionaire is NOT a better human than someone living on the streets. That silver spoon in your mouth does not make you better than me. It’s just a spoon. Understand that our differences are used to pit us against each other through man-made (i.e., illusory) social constructs – they’re not REAL! But they do have very real, very negative consequences for a multitude of people throughout our community when they aren’t acknowledged or understood…

Once we accept that we’re all the same:

• That we all make meaning of our experiences through thought
• That we are all innately perfect bundles of mental health, if not for our thinking
• That there is no ‘them’ … only ‘us’

Then we can begin to not only accept what we see as differences between us but get curious about what makes us different. To seek to understand how and why we see things differently (and how what we ‘see’ as different, isn’t really all that different). This approach only happens from a place of presence, of living life where life is lived; in the moment. Where curiosity resides. From a place of love. Because it’s a lot harder to wield the blunt instrument of Fear and Intimidation when you understand someone enough to feel love for them. And when we feel loved, when we feel valued, when we feel like we’re part of something bigger than ourselves, we’ll achieve more than you’ve ever seen us achieve before.

At least it’s worth a try, right?

So, how does this story end? Well, I had intended to wrap with two reflections:

• One about The Reciprocity Collective, an incredible nonprofit I work with that provides basic human need and employment support to the unhoused community. TRC is a model of modern nonprofit management, with all stakeholders represented throughout the organization and charged with treating each other with the same humanity as we do our constituents. It’s been very successful in making an exponential impact.
• And the other about the entire keynote being an exercise in how reframing can lead to a positive mindset and a successful keynote (so much for that!).

Instead, the Q&A devolved into an argument amongst the crowd about where the 4-million Americans who supposedly vanished from the workforce were hiding. It got to the point where the senior person in the room had to commandeer the microphone and say, “Thank you Jeff, that will be all for tonight, have a good evening everyone, goodbye.” I didn’t even get to show the final slide with my contact information … perhaps a blessing, in hindsight.

I guess they weren’t ready.

I’m still baffled that we could spend so much time commiserating about the abusive management behavior we had all been subjected to and yet still argue to support it. That they couldn’t quite see that all humans walking Earth are the same, are equal, and deserve to be treated as we would all like to be treated, and that in doing so, the outcomes would be exponentially better. That said, I did get a sense that the younger folks in the group were biting their tongues, that they may have agreed with the perspective I was promoting and were just biding their time. That keeps me hopeful.

There’s still hope that what’s best for us as a species will prevail. There always is.

*If you or someone you know is suffering from Fear & Intimidation Management, I can help – it’s what I do (jeff@thelogosgroup.net)

I spoke to my dad for the last time this past Father’s Day. He died three days later. As I imagine is the case with most men, my father had a tremendous influence on my life. What may be less typical is that I had a fantastic, close relationship with him for nearly all of my 52 years. That final conversation with him was probably the most heart-wrenching experience I’ve ever had. I’m so grateful to have had it. 

As I mentioned in the opening of my last post, one of my favorite things about backpacking is all that time to think, yet one of the most challenging things can be what I say to myself with all that time to think… 

What I didn’t mention to my good buddy, Dan O’Brien, as we drove out to climb Mount of the Holy Cross, was that I was looking forward to taking advantage of four days in the Colorado wilderness to work through my ongoing relationship with my dad, just a few weeks after his passing. I knew he’d be out there with me and I was excited to see how he’d show up. I was most excited to learn how I’d deal with it. 

As with most of these multi-day adventures, there’s a fair amount of nervous excitement at the trail head: changing into hiking shoes, last-minute gear checks, final sips of coffee, hiding the car keys. All of that falls away as we take our first step on the trail and I remember saying quietly under my breath, “Here we go.” I realized as I said it that I wasn’t talking about Dan and me but my dad and me. He was with me from the start and I was thrilled to show him my life in the woods. I loved that. 

It was a little odd, at first, but I chose to welcome those thoughts in to see what would happen. I’d let feelings of grief, sadness, and longing go by and stay open to what came next. Early on, as my mind wandered, I had a vision of the two of us sitting at the dining room table when I was a kid and he said, simply, “Hey, Jeffer” (one of his many names for me). It was so clear and so direct that it was a bit uncomfortable. I let the discomfort pass and answered, intentionally, “Hi Dad.” This simple gesture of welcoming him in rather than freaking out or getting on the Grief Train opened the door and I felt my dad join me on the trail. 

From then on, I talked to him without discomfort. There was no more grief or sadness to let pass, just the joy and contentment of having my father with me, exploring one of my favorite ways to live out my life. It was wonderful. 

My dad continued to flow in and out of my awareness and thoughts throughout those four days. Sometimes I’d see something that stirred a memory with him.Every time I crested a ridge and was able to look out over the broad expanses above tree line, I was reminded of the incredible times we had spent on the long motorcycle trips we took together when I was growing up, racing through the desert. These memories made me smile. No reason to be sad over a good time. When things got hard on the trail and I questioned my ability to continue, I could feel his strength pushing me to soldier on (he never quit anything). When I came to an amazing view, I could feel him taking it in with me. I could sense the difference between looking out, alone, and knowing there was someone with me, his arm around my shoulder. 

When Dan and I reached the 14,005′ summit of Mount of the Holy Cross, there were ashes scattered across the survey marker (see picture). It was a fitting reminder that my father was with me on that summit. His first Fourteener. I’ve since acquired a tattoo as a tribute to my dad, the ink infused with his ashes. I love it! 

He’d always marveled at my backcountry adventures and now he was having one of his own. I’m so grateful to have shared this with him. He could see that I knew what I was doing, that there was no reason to be afraid for me, despite what he might have said when he was alive. He really seemed to enjoy it 🙂 

I can’t express how grateful I am to my dear friend and coach, Jason Berv. Several years ago, he shared the understanding of our true relationship to our thoughts and how we make meaning of our experiences. Knowing that I can choose to take whichever of my thoughts as seriously as I want was a true blessing as I dealt with the grief of my father’s passing.I realized from this perspective that I could let the memories of my dad and the desire to reach out to him flow through me. I didn’t have to let them get me down. Instead, I could see the joy in those memories, appreciate my father’s love for me, and feel my continuing love for him. I came to understand that these thoughts and feelings were his energy flowing through me; that even though I couldn’t call him, he would be living with me forever.

I came away from this trip with a different perspective on my own death. I understand now, more than ever, that our essence is energy and that when our physical body gives out, our essence continues in the experiences of those we’ve touched. I’m no longer afraid to die but, rather, excited that my energy will continue to flow through those I love. 

I love that. And I miss you, Dad. 

If you would like to explore a different relationship with grief or sadness, I can help … it’s what I do. You can message me here or email me at jeff@thelogosgroup.net.

One of my favorite things about backpacking is the amount of time I have to think with such little distraction. One of the things that can get really annoying when backpacking is what I can say to myself – over and over, and over, again – with all that time to think… [up next, Part III: ”How to Continue a Relationship with Your Dad After He Dies…”] 

Add in some pain and discomfort … or a LOT of pain and discomfort – like when my good buddy Dan O’Brien and I recently hiked the Halo Ridge route to the top of Mount of the Holy Cross – and you could find yourself spending several hours riding the fine line between pain and suffering. 

That was me, dropping 3,000′ in 3 hours from the 14,005′ summit to our campsite below. With an arthritic foot and degenerating back, the pain actually started 5 hours before as we were leaving our first camp that morning. We had estimated the 3-mile ridge route to the summit would take about 3 hours. An hour in and only three-quarters of a mile covered, we knew it was going to be a very long day. That’s when my pain jumped the rail to suffering. Then I told my Ego to shut the ‘F’ up and just leave me with my pain. But he’s a tricky bastard so the dance began… 

I tend to think of myself somewhat as a mindfulness expert. Heck, my consulting and coaching practice is based on it! I understand how we use thought to make meaning of our experiences. I understand that I can take the role of observer and choose how seriously to take my thoughts. From this perspective – and in this instance – I understand that suffering is the meaning I make out of the physical pain I’m experiencing and that if I don’t want to get on that train to Sufferville, I don’t have to. Pain and suffering are two different things. I don’t have to let the pain get to me. 

I understand that pain is the result of my body – my meat bag – signaling to my brain that it has sensed something has gone awry. If that signal is significant enough to attract my attention, my intellect grabs hold of it. This amazing analytical and computational tool we always have at our disposal then does its job and tries to make meaning of it. I’m presented with a thought: “Ouch!” 

It’s at this point that you have an option. 

Imagine the Present Moment (i.e., now) is a train station and that every train coming through is a thought your intellect is creating. In this case, the destination on the train’s placard says, “Your Back Hurts.” If you get on that train, you begin a conversation with yourself about how your back hurts. Maybe you’re taking a trip down Memory Lane and remembering prior experiences with back pain. Maybe you’re reminding yourself what an idiot you’ve been not taking care of it before and then promising yourself to make a doctor’s appointment the instant you get home. Regardless of the particular route you’re taking to Your Back Hurts, the energy of this conversation intensifies your pain. This will continue until you get off that train. This is suffering. 

What many of us are unaware of is that we don’t have to get on that train at all. We can simply remain in the Present Moment Station and let that pain train go on without us. We have this option with any of the thoughts our mind creates. All of our thoughts show up as trains in the station and we always have the choice to get on or let it go. When that train door opens, we get a sense of what’s waiting for us inside. If we haven’t paid much attention to the thought destination on the placard, we can feel what we’re in for because the thought we didn’t acknowledge gets insistent by triggering a somatic reaction to gain our attention. We can welcome that feeling in, see what it does for us, and then decide whether we want to actually get on the train and go there. 

The empowering beauty of it is, if we do happen to get on the train, we can get off whenever we want. Another station will appear and we can let the train go on without us. When we realize that this is how it works, we can get curious about riding trains. We have an all-access pass so we can actually play with the various trains our thoughts bring into the station. Ride for a bit, see if you like the conversation, get off if you don’t. 

Living life from this perspective is the key to experiencing joy and contentment. 

On the rocky traverse leading to the summit of Holy Cross, I am so preoccupied with each step moving through the boulders, loose talus and scree that I barely notice my pain. Don’t get me wrong, it bubbles to the surface regularly but is typically displaced by, “Watch your step!” The climb down is different. There is a meticulously maintained trail leading down to our next camp for the masses who take the standard route. I no longer have unstable rocks and trail finding to focus on, my path is clear in front of me. All I have to do at this point is deal with the pain… 

I take the role of observer. I can see and feel the meaning I’m making out of my experience through thought and decide how to engage. It’s not a matter of pushing things aside, ignoring, or stuffing feelings. It’s being open to whatever comes and understanding that the nature of life, thought, and experience is fluid. 

On the way down from the summit, I did exactly that. I’d let the pain in, get a sense of what was hurting, when. Maybe make a change to my stride or readjust my pack, and then take a breath and look out to see what would catch my attention next. I remember enjoying the view, listening to the wind, wondering which patch of trees below hid our camp, and marveling at the trail construction. I found that if I lingered in the pain too long, the suffering would begin. The pain would intensify, my breath would shorten, my head would tighten, and I’d start telling myself that maybe I couldn’t go on, I wasn’t in shape for this, this trip was a mistake. I found that when I first became aware of the pain, I could just take a breath and look around, get curious about something, and the pain would end. Not intensify and lead into self-defeating self-talk, but just fade away from my awareness. 

Once I got back into the forest below tree line, the air cooled and the scenery changed dramatically. There was so much more to look at, hear, smell and feel. The final mile flew by on the gentle breeze and I soon heard voices, a sure sign that camp was near and I’d finally be able to stop, drop my pack, and change into my comfy camp shoes. 

If you would like to fully enjoy life and minimize suffering of all kinds, I can help … it’s what I do. You can message me here or email me at jeff@thelogosgroup.net.

“Well, we’re not going back THAT way,” my good friend, fellow Trojan, and current hiking partner, Dan O’Brien says, matter-of-factly. Dan was in from California and I was introducing him to the world of Colorado’s 14,000′ peaks. The primary routes for most Fourteeners are crowded with Peak Baggers so we chose to climb Mount of the Holy Cross by the much more difficult Halo Ridge approach and seemed to have it all to ourselves… This was the only way to view the eponymous cross on the east face and I wanted Dan to see the cross.  

At the moment, we’re glancing across the long undulating spine of boulders we just traversed. We had reached the top of PT 13373, an unnamed peak noted only by its elevation. It was The Point of No Return – that point where it’s more dangerous to turn back than continue. 

But what happens when you get to The Point of No Return and you just want to quit? Backward or forward doesn’t matter … you’re done. Now what? 

Due to the severity of the terrain, it was taking much more time than expected, which meant water would soon become a problem. We were experienced backpackers. We knew quitting was not an option past the Point of No Return. At that moment, we both knew that we would have to carry on and finish what we started. We were, in fact, going to climb one of Colorado’s most storied Fourteeners. Not just because that’s what we had set out to do. It was really the only way to survive. There was no quit. “I can’t” wouldn’t fly. No one would be coming to save us. And Dan couldn’t carry both of us. The longer we took to get to the water source waiting on the other side of Holy Cross, the less likely we were to make it. It was time to move. And it was going to hurt.  

Now looking toward our target, our 2 1/2-mile path lay clearly in front of us:

1. Drop 400′
2. Cross 10 yards of a 6′ wide catwalk (1,000′ drop on each side)
3. Climb almost 1,000′ to another summit at 13,831′
4. Drop another 600′
5. Climb the final 800′ to the 14,005′ summit of Mount of the Holy Cross 

All over seemingly endless piles of car-sized boulders, unstable talus, and loose scree.  

Did I mention we were wearing 40-pound backpacks? For me and my back, I knew I was really going to suffer on the way off the mountain, dropping 3,000’ in 3 miles to our next camp (stay tuned for Part 2: How to Ride the Line Between Pain and Suffering for 8 Hours…).  

When we reached the catwalk saddle between PT 13373 and PT 13831, Dan and I stopped to catch our breath and grab a snack before our next big climb. We talked about Dan’s experience as a Troop Leader for the Boy Scouts (shout out to Culver City Troop 108!). In nearly 5 years of leading groups of all ages throughout the California wilderness, Dan’s had many a Scout declare they were done, finished, couldn’t take another step, regardless of how far they were from either camp or car. And yet, they managed to persevere and make it out of the woods (he hasn’t left anyone behind, as far as he knows…). Somehow, despite the “I can’t take another step” story they’ve convinced themselves is true, they’re able to take another step, and then another, until they’ve made it to the end.  

When you’re convinced you’re done, how do you get over it and press ahead? 

We often have the ability, in this modern ‘on-demand’ society in which we live, to quit things that we don’t enjoy or just don’t feel like doing. Personally, my arch-nemesis is the Cover Letter … I can’t stand writing them so they rarely get done. I always start with the best of intentions but it’s too easy to quit, so I typically do. Without significant consequence, quitting becomes too easy, too commonplace, and too simply forgiven. Some may even get into the habit of quitting, quick to exclaim, “I can’t” whenever things start to get uncomfortable in the normal course of life.  

From my perspective, this is all about comfort zones. We each have imaginary borders at the edge of our experience, and the closer we get to that boundary, the more internal discomfort we feel. The more discomfort we feel, the more powerful the story our Ego writes about what’s going to happen on the other side. We’re now operating in fear and that fear is holding us back. When we are aware of the fact that our minds are just predicting something we don’t want to happen, we can become curious about what’s really on the other side of that imaginary boundary. From there, we can push through it, one step at a time.  

What’s waiting for us is magic. No more self-talk about being afraid, inadequate, or small. No more self-limiting beliefs about what you can’t do. The joy, fulfillment, and satisfaction of getting over the hump to success. The awareness that you can do anything when you let those fearful thoughts go. 

If this can be accomplished in the face of death (or at least significant pain and suffering), it can be applied to any situation we face when we start to get uncomfortable. Just let those fearful thoughts go and get curious about what you will learn. Keep pushing those boundaries!  

Dan and I did just that. As we finally finished Halo Ridge – two hours behind schedule and out of water – we joined the main access trail to our final summit. We started seeing ant-sized people winding their way down from the top and every group we passed buoyed our spirits with, “You’re almost there!” One couple even shared some life-saving water. The last hundred feet of climbing seemed to float by on their communal support as we crested the final boulder and took in the 360-degree view. We shared stories with a group on top and reveled in seeing the entirety of the route we just completed. “You hiked THAT? With THOSE packs?” they exclaimed. I was finally able to stand atop Mount of the Holy Cross (and make it back alive to tell this story and plan for the next adventure!).  

If you would like to explore the full potential waiting for you outside your comfort zone, I can help … it’s what I do. You can message me here or email me at jeff@thelogosgroup.net.

I am violently pried from my zero degree sleeping bag at the crack of dawn. 

The culprit is a gust of wind strong enough to blow the blockaded door of the storm shelter open, and along with it, bring several shovel-fulls of driving snow into my quickly devolving reality [What may look easy one minute could become extremely difficult 20 minutes later.]. 

The last thing I want is to get out of my down cocoon, grasping for another moment of sleep or comfort. Still, I leap up to shut the door and notice it is quite cold – 14 degrees, to be exact [Always dress for the occasion.].

I had made note of the deteriorating conditions outside throughout the night, not having really slept at all due to the mice crawling all over and finally sleeping on top of me. I had fought them off for several hours but succumbed in exhausted defeat. After all, at 13,000′ in elevation, I’m the warmest thing around for many, many miles [Sometimes you have to sleep with rats – but you don’t have to let them get in your head.]… 

As I throw the door shut, I notice I can barely make out the trail I came up the afternoon before as it rapidly fills with snow in the total white-out before me … I quickly estimate having maybe 45 minutes before it disappears completely, as it’s snowing (sideways) at 2″ per hour [Things change quickly – one must adapt quickly as well.]… 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this… the 5 mile hike in was under beautiful, cloudless blue skies and the weather forecast only called for 1-2″ of snow overnight at the summit of the Mount of the Holy Cross (14,005′), the mountain I had expected to climb that morning, via the relatively treacherous (even in the best of conditions) Halo Ridge Route [Don’t always believe the forecast.]. What better way to conquer my first winter solo 14’er? 

I quickly decide that, not only is that NOT going to happen today [‘Success’ can quickly become ‘survival’.], if I don’t get down 2,500′ to tree line, the exposed 2 1/2 miles and 32 switchbacks I navigated on the way up will be indecipherable in the ongoing blizzard and I will risk stepping off a 2,000′ cliff if I happen to miss any of the 16 right turns by more than 2-3 feet on the way down [Sometimes turning back is the best option – but going back isn’t always as clear a path as you might think.]… 

It doesn’t help that I packed so light for the summit attempt that I didn’t bring a map [Planning to barely squeak by can get ugly with minor variations.]. I expected to rely on the GPS and topo maps downloaded to my phone but the 14 degree temps froze the phone completely, rendering it useless (solid work, Apple!) [Preparing Plan B for critical systems is prudent.]… High stakes backpacking, for sure! [Having the minimum of resources can leave you exposed.] 

All of this is coming into perspective while I quickly pack my things for the emergency descent. My initial thought is, “I’m not making it out of this alive.” 

I’ve had a few close calls in my life but have somehow managed to escape the Reaper. Remembering this gives me hope, which stills the panic and activates Heightened Action Mode [A few deep breaths clear away the panic and bring you back to problem solving mode.]. 

I know what I have to do: zip up my jacket, strap on my pack and get the hell out ASAP. I figure, as long as I can see SOME bit of trail, I can put one foot in front of the other and get myself off that mountain. 

I quickly learn this means with about 5 feet of visibility, I can just make out the trail leaving the next switchback and, if need be, can cut the turn if I lose sight and drop right into the next straightaway [You don’t need to see far to find your way.].

This realization not only brings overwhelming joy, it gives me but one focus: see the next return [Avoid cliffs at all cost.].And every time I do, I cheer out loud! One after another, until I begin to make out the heavenly shape of trees, which I know signals a (relatively) snow protected trail back to my truck. 

That last 2 1/2 miles is one of the most awesome hikes of my life: the forest is incredibly beautiful and amazingly silent in the foot of fresh snow that’s fallen over the few short hours and I seem to skip along above it, effortlessly, knowing I am going to live to climb Holy Cross another day [It feels really good to get back home.]. 

Epilogue: I failed to summit attempt number two the following season, as well (this time due to freezing rain)! Someday… [Honest planning and an honest inventory of available skills makes for the best start and positions for success.]

Agility is the ability to be nimble in real time. In a physical sense, as conditions and circumstances change (which they always do), how quickly are we able to respond – appropriately – to those changes? 

My winter passion is backcountry snowboarding, otherwise known as splitboarding. One of my prized possessions is a locally made Venture snowboard that is split lengthwise, down the middle, becoming two skis for uphill travel then converting back into a single snowboard for the descent. No lifts, no noise, no crowds and tons of deep powder for my friends and me to enjoy as long as we have the fitness for the climb (and an avalanche tracking beacon…).

But because the snowcats don’t groom the backcountry like they would in a traditional ski resort, the conditions are known as ‘variable’. As new snow falls on old, the wind blows it here and there and back again, and the temperature changes throughout the day, from day to day. The snow on the ground forms a wide variety of layers of different consistencies, all of which look … just like snow.

Snowboarding a backcountry slope is quite an experience. A single run down the mountain can consist of sheer ice, thick chunks (or ‘chud’), a thin crust with sugary powder below, waist-deep powder (the Holy Grail), and every variation in between. It could be the quintessential light Colorado Champagne or that dreaded (by Coloradans) heavy Sierra Cement. And if these layers are stacked in a particular way under the right (wrong?) conditions, the entire slope can break into a deadly avalanche. Exciting stuff!

To successfully survive this experience is the definition of ‘agility’. Looking down from the top of the mountain, you have no idea what’s really ahead so there’s not much you can do to ‘mentally prepare yourself’ for the drop in. If you’ve created a story in your head of perfect powder and hit ice, it’s a long, fast slide on your butt to the forest gauntlet below. If your story is about ice and you hit powder, your ‘face plant’ could bury you to your waist.

Moving at speed in the ever-changing-moment, you must be able to make both subtle and significant movements of stance and foot pressure while constantly surveying the surrounding conditions to navigate the best route down and avoid avalanches. You might start off skating on ice, then breaking through crust, then back on top, now thick wind-loaded powder, now light freshies, then back to crust, watching out for that roller (they tend to break and slide), and always listening for that dreaded ‘whomp’ of compressing snow that precedes an avalanche…

The ability to be and stay agile, to make the right movements and decisions in the moment, is the key to survival.

Through awareness of how our minds work, we can maintain a mental agility, as well. Our pre-frontal cortex (PFC) is an amazing analytical and computational tool that allows us to ‘know’ that we know. Also referred to as our intellect or Ego, we know that we can get trapped in a thought storm that can render us fairly useless (which can become a death sentence in the backcountry … as well as in the Board Room). What we don’t often understand – and where mental agility comes in – is that we don’t have to spend our lives trapped in our PFC. We’ve all experienced occasions of perfect clarity. We feel calm and content and the most amazing things seem to come to mind in that space: the answer to a problem we’ve been struggling with, an insight about the direction we should move in life, the best conversation we’ve ever had, or maybe just noticing the overwhelming beauty of something we hadn’t really noticed before.

What we don’t always understand is that this place of clarity is available to us all the time (and not just when we’re not paying attention to anything else). We have the ability to be aware of when our Ego is holding us back, even when under duress, and feel those familiar feelings when our minds get cluttered with thoughts of fear, anxiety, insecurity and grief (to name a few of my favorites). When our intellect starts writing these stories for us and we feel the familiar pangs – whether standing on a mountain top or buried under a to-do list – we have the ability to sit back and let those initial thoughts and associated feeling pass and find ourselves again in the clarity of the moment – in consciousness. It’s in consciousness that life is lived, where we connect with all living things and where inspiration and creativity are found. With an agile mind, we can go there anytime we choose.

If you would like more command of your thoughts and emotions in the moment, I can help … it’s what I do. You can message me here, email me at jeff@thelogosgroup.net or call (415) 298-9139.

I had an amazing insight while mountain biking the other day … when in the midst of dangerous circumstances, our thoughts just get in the way. 

I realized that when I’m riding fast down a steep, twisty trail, I don’t hardly think at all. I’m moving too fast and there are just too many decisions to even consider at that speed. Fortunately, my body knows what to do. Because I’m not caught up in thought, I’m in the present moment where I have access to the infinite wisdom of the universe and I just ride the waves of energy to the bottom. This happens automatically, whether we are aware of it or not. This enjoyment in the moment is why I live to ride my bike. 

But what if the circumstances aren’t unfolding at high-speed? When I approach obstacles at a low-speed, like a 2-foot high rock step on a steep climb, my mind can get flooded with thoughts about the right approach speed, when to lift the front and then the rear tires, how to keep the handlebars from twisting at the end, how heavy my legs feel, etc., etc. … etc. My mind speeds up to crunch the numbers and produce the correct ‘order of operation’ while the rock is continuing to move toward me. I’m getting anxious about following all the steps correctly, clouded with images of potentially bloody outcomes. My vision narrows, by body tightens and the results are mixed, at best. If I’m really ‘in my head’, I’ll continue to have a conversation with myself about the results for several minutes, missing everything else around me … and not feeling too happy with myself, in the end. 

What I realized is that I can have a similar experience to the downhill sections if I just let that first thought go by. When I feel my mind starting to speed up as it sees a potentially frightening obstacle ahead, I can adjust my mental speed for the conditions, keep from getting caught up in thought, stay in the moment and have faith that I already have everything I need inside of me to make it through, over or around anything in front of me. Just like with anything else in life, life is lived in the present moment. That’s where we find joy and contentment. When I’m out of my head and in the moment, I can get through any obstacle and enjoy every bit of the ride! 

If you struggle with effectiveness under pressure and feel your thoughts are sometimes getting the best of you, I can help … it’s what I do. You can message me here, email me at jeff@thelogosgroup.net or call (415) 298-9139.