The Cluttered Gap

When I first caught the concept of “the gap” (Viktor Frankl actually calls it a “space”), I envisioned a pristine vacuum. In my mind I saw the electric spark of choice jumping through this tiny void between stimulus and response. All I had to do was to make sure the spark did not fly unexamined. I believed I had total freedom to redirect or even short-circuit that spark. Wasn’t this where Frankl said our freedom lay? (spark picture source)

“What are you doing about security at this school?!” the mother accused more than questioned me. I asked some good “listening” questions to clarify her concern. The more she talked, the more I concluded she had unrealistic expectations of the school. And the more agitated I became.

I was aware of the gap; on the far side stood a strong threatening stimulus and my fully-conscious response came out something like this: “Yes, we could provide that level of security if we just moved our students into the penitentiary!” She looked shocked and offended. I smiled weakly indicating that she should quit being angry and take it as a joke. No luck.

It got worse. A few days later, I penitently shared that incident with the faculty in a “tell-it-all-Brother” pep talk. Maybe they could learn negatively from my example. A few days after that I used withering sarcasm again… with the same woman! This time she called me on it and I offered a sincere, heartfelt apology. I don’t want to use that sarcasm again, but I know I likely will.

So what’s with this “pristine gap” where we can attend to the spark arcing through crystal clarity? I’ve come to conclude that the gap is not empty! It’s not a vacuum. It looks more like my storage room downstairs which is full of memorabilia, outdated stuff, and things I can’t quite yet discard. Our gaps are cluttered with all the memories, expectations, and values we’ve accumulated over the years. Each one provides a superconductor for that spark/choice, leading it to responses we’re not always proud of. (clutter picture source)

To truly “mind the gap” I have to be open to examining each piece of my stored stuff. And that stuff is really in there. Other people often see it better than I do. My wife used to realize when I was retreating before I did.

“Jim, I think you’re going into your cave.”

“I am not; just leave me alone!”

Notice that her statement ended with a period, mine with an exclamation point. I believe it’s the unexamined stuff crowding the gap that adds the emotional punch to our responses. When we see what memory, value, or expectation drove our unhelpful response, it is easier to let it go and to forgive ourselves. We’re not stupid, only partially-sighted.

Occasionally, in a pinch, we can suspend our emotional dis-ease and confusion by delegating the decision to our rational mind. It analyzes the situation, adds up the points, and chooses a response. But we can act on that decision only as an act of faith in logic. Then we use self-control to suppress the emotions for a limited time. Sooner or later we still have to deal with the stuff by discarding, rearranging, or accepting it. And our choice of responses will be as much richer as my storage room is than a vacuum.

Desperate or Heroic?

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” wrote Henry David Thoreau in his 1854 book Walden. One-hundred-fifty years later it may still be true. However, that quote does not help me know what to do about it.

I prefer to say, “All people lead heroic lives.” This is not a denial of the pain and loneliness in real lives. Instead it is an affirmation of all lives; the pleasant and the petrified. It reminds me, too, that each person is the leading actor in their own reality; they are not mere supporting cast for the movie of my life. (That should take my narcissism down a notch or two.)

Some people may lead lives that are truly heroic; while others may only appear heroic to me. I can’t tell the difference. On the other side of the coin, some may be suffering at depths I can’t fathom; while others may look pathetic but possess greater resources of mind and money than I. I can’t tell the difference… and I suppose it doesn’t matter.

Just as work expands to fill the available time, so do joy or despair. Any individual I question tells me their life is overfull! And it’s generally overflowing with whatever they continue to focus on and expect. Some speak from hospital beds about God’s blessing. Others fret about the future while signing another multi-million dollar tract of houses.

The decision still lies within the individual. What I allow to fill The Gap determines the quality of my life. It also determines the quality of my responses to the random events of life. But more sobering, it also determines what will pass my filter to become permanently lodged in my memory as one more proof that “This is just the way life is.”

When I think of all people leading heroic lives, either victoriously or tragically, I am able for a moment to watch “their movie”, and to dimly sense the contents of their Gap. Then I am usually more inclined to applaud their successes, mourn their losses, and encourage them to aim higher.

(The masks are from http://www.lcsc.edu/ )

The Grand Provider

I was speeding to work not because I was late, only later than I wanted to be. Rounding the corner I spied the school parking lot… totally EMPTY! This was great! Not only had I earned a bit of quiet work time, but I’d also beaten Clare. Clare is the early bird and today I was earlier! That made me happy. Nothing wrong with being happy.

I merrily grabbed my bag from the back seat, locked the car, and strode to the front door hoping to get inside before Clare pulled up. She’d think I’d arrived even earlier! Desperately patting all pockets I realized I’d left my school keys at home. That would cost me another 12 minutes at the least. I was sorely disappointed. Crestfallen, I drove home for the keys.

My disappointment seemed too big for the 12-minute loss of work time. As I drove, I wondered why I had such a sense of failure. Yes, I had much to do, and initially that’s what I railed about. But 12 minutes wouldn’t set me back that far. And besides, I had actually thought of leaving my bag at the front door so Clare would know I’d been there already.

Ouch, the truth began to dawn. And I wasn’t just wanting to beat Clare, I was mostly wanting to look like the early bird and the night owl—always working to provide for the school’s people. I wanted to be—or even worse, to look like—the grand provider of all, one whom no one could fault for slacking off. That led me to realize how vulnerable I was feeling in my work, and how needy I was for recognition. Wanting to be seen as the Grand Provider, is getting too close to blasphemy. When I recognized that, I was able to let it go. I could tell I had let go when I quit praying that Clare would be slow this morning so I could still beat her!

As it turns out, I did beat her, but the desire had been released. Whether she was there or not upon my second arrival was totally irrelevant to what I needed to do, and I had quit needing to fuel a false image.

Needless navel gazing? Don't think so. The day before, a fellow principal had dropped into my office weary with the burden of the sudden death of a faculty member. He needed a good nap. I recognized that, but jabbered on about two interesting challenges I was facing (and, of course, skillfully managing). He didn’t need either story. He wandered in looking exhausted and needed a listening ear not an entertaining mouth. If I had known then what I know now, he would have been better served.

Minding the Gap can be painful, but if I want better outcomes, I have to go in there and take an honest look around.

The Endless Gap

This poignant day made the gap huge. Former-behaviorist Viktor Frankl said there’s a tiny gap between stimulus and response. When, in that gap, we choose our response, stimulus ceases to control us. In that gap we have freedom. So I have thought of the gap as a place to spring from; a slight pause for thought before action. But some days, the gap is not tiny. Some days it yawns. Some days it spans eternity.

This was such a day. I watched our junior high students as they tried to make sense of the death of a classmate’s mother. Two years she waltzed with cancer. This morning before school, he claimed her as his bride. She is no longer available to those who still love her.

So the kids struggle; and we sit in the gap together. A stimulus most horrid has acted on us. What response will we choose? As we stumble about, trying to find our feet, the gap widens. We’re not coming out the far side with a response. We’re still thinking. We’re still feeling. Maybe in the face of nothing to do, the gap can stretch on past the horizon.

Better Than Harmless

Last Monday I drove three hours to Spokane for an all-day meeting. In pre-dawn glory, I streamed past Walla Walla heading for open highway. October colors swabbed the land as I began thinking of the many unsung heroes in this sleepy little berg; people who toil thanklessly to keep us safe and comfortable. Suddenly I had an epiphany. It was as if a light had turned on and would not quit flashing.

I determined then and there to pull onto the shoulder of the road, stop, and make a sizeable donation to one such organization – the Washington State Patrol. A courteous officer gladly received my contribution in the amount he suggested, $95. In exchange for my gift he offered some sage advice: “Slow down.” (A helpful guy.) At $95 for five miles-an-hour over the limit, each mile was worth $19 – "Now THERE'S 'value added'.”

My one act of early-morning kindness warmed my heart through the intervening (slow) hours of driving until I arrived safely at my meeting. This is my story and I’m sticking with it. I made it up as an ironic explanation to my peers for why I was 30 minutes late.

The ticket was real; the “contribution” angle was a fantasy and an exercise in diversionary creative writing. “Minding the gap” sometimes calls for a little “revisionist history”. The flashing lights initially generated a sinking feeling and the ticket turned my stomach. But once on the road again I faced the choice of how to view the event. I heeded the timely reminder to drive safely and there was nothing more to learn. I could not change the occurrence, but I could “redesign” it. So I created my own story about it; a disarming and harmless pastime.

Better than harmless, it untied the knot in my stomach, made me smile, and colored the rest of the day a shade brighter. Here was one of the real benefits: Only one hour later, I noticed flashing lights in my rearview mirror, again. I glanced at my speedometer. “Hmm… only three miles-an-hour over. Should be cheaper than the last one,” I thought.

I pulled onto the shoulder and the cop sped past on his way to something more important. Not a drop of adrenaline spent; still in a blissful mood. Some self-chosen delusions are better than harmless.

The Toilet Light Insight

This was the last straw. As I stood there bleeding, I reflected over the past couple of days. I had flown to University of Tennessee, Knoxville, to attend the Robert S. Hartman Institute’s Annual Conference. My wife cashed in her own frequent flier miles to get me a $10 ticket and I paid $50 for the conference. Not bad.

The Inn where I stayed was another story. At nearly $100 a night, one would expect a certain level of elegance and comfort. The Internet gave it mixed reviews. The small Victorian bed and breakfast was a pleasant 15-minute walk from McClung Tower where the RSH Conference was held on the university campus. On arriving after midnight, the dimly-lit room looked like a haven. Much work has gone into decorating the B&B, but it’s not well maintained; as though the rather sloppy innkeeper’s late wife had been the inspiration behind its décor and now-waning charm.

The innkeeper, Buddy (not his real name), is a man who throws a few charming words and gracious gestures like a thin sheet over a living room pile of his lumpy frustrations and knobby discontent. The outcome is not a comfy couch. At my first breakfast, he popped into one of three dimly-lit eating areas where I was dishing up fruit and cereal, and kindly pointed out the several options and disappeared.

Soon I wandered into the next room looking for milk. I spotted a white pitcher that experience led me to believe would contain milk. I picked it up as Buddy poked his head out of a narrow dark hallway leading back to a cluttered kitchen where he cooks up his eggs-and-ham breakfast casserole.

“One percent or whole?” he asked.

“One percent,” I answered.

Then he spied the white pitcher in my hand, and said, “You gonna pour coffee on your cereal?”

“No” I said, “Do you have milk?”

“That’s why I said, ‘one percent or whole’,” he repeated rather testily. I quietly received the milk that he pulled from a fridge in the dark recesses of the kitchen. But I was thinking up clever comebacks which I never delivered.

With no shower curtain and a showerhead that tended to point wherever it’s fickleness willed, I found myself each morning on my knees sopping up all the water that had sprayed out on the bathroom floor. Rotting baseboards told me I wasn’t the first to face this problem, and it did cost me several minutes each morning.

Thursday night, the room was a bit chilly so as I climbed into bed, I turned on the heater. “Blehhhhhh!!” the smoke detector belted out with deafening volume. I jumped up, found the offended device and hit its reset button which mercifully worked. But the heater had already spewed out acrid smoke and I lay in bed breathing it as I tried to fall asleep. Later, I told Buddy, and he said, “It don't surprise me, the folks in room #1 did the same thing last night. Always happens in the Fall. All the dust in ‘em kinda burns up when they first come on.”

Friday night I was settling in early when I heard many fireworks. After a bit, curiosity overcame me and I decided to hurry out and see if I could catch the tail end of the show. Not bothering to pick up my key or put on my shoes, I left my room door ajar and padded down the hall to the front door which has a handwritten sign on the inside saying, “Do not lock the front door.” I left that door ajar also to be doubly sure, and I wandered out towards the street picking my way gingerly over the gravel parking lot.

The display was farther away than I thought. Over the Tennessee River, hundreds of fireworks were going off like one prolonged finale. As I admired many colorful explosions and thrilled to the heavy percussions, two women walked into the Inn and closed the door. No worries, everyone knows not to lock it.

At the end of the show, I picked my way back across the lot and tried the locked door. Did I say “locked”? This was bad news. I had no key. It was late and my cell phone was inside. Without shoes I didn’t relish the thought of creeping around the old building, stepping on brambles or slugs, peering into windows, and begging someone to open the front door. Instead, I hammered on the door with my fist. Time and again I pounded.

I was getting worried when one of the women reappeared and opened the door. “It says, ‘Don’t lock the door,’” she said.

“I didn’t,” I answered. “I don’t even know how to. Look, there’s no way to do it without the key.” We both examined the door and scratched our heads. She went back to bed. I got my room key, but that didn’t even fit the lock. The door was still locked though I was now on the happy side of it. However, I had gotten just worried enough on the porch that I didn’t want someone else to be stuck, so I called Buddy.

“That’s why I put that sign on the door that says, ‘Don’t lock the door.’” he chided.

“I didn’t lock the door,” I stated. “Well, somebody did,” he said disbelievingly. I sighed, “How can I unlock it so that the next guy doesn’t get caught?” I asked wanting to be done and back in bed.

“You could have just used the key that was under the front mat,” Buddy said not ready to end the scolding.

“Well, you know, the next guy might not know about the key under the front mat and really be stuck,” I said. “How do I fix it to stay unlocked?”

“Just push the button,” Buddy said with some agitation.

It took him awhile to understand that I had no idea to look at the end of the door right below the actual latch to find two little buttons like old-fashioned light switches. These buttons are, of course, covered when the door is closed. Push one, the latch is locked. Push the other, and the latch is unlocked. I was having a hard time picturing this, never having seen a door with mechanical on-and-off buttons on the skinny end of the door. I told him I’d look for them and try it.

He said, “Well, if you can’t figure it out, I’ll just have to drive down there and push the button myself.” Then he admitted that over time, one button tends to move out and the door locks itself.

The next morning, the yellowed-plastic cover to the light fixture in the toilet room fell on my hand, puncturing my skin before it clattered onto the tiles. “Ouch!” I said, trying to squeeze more blood out of the big muscle at the base of my thumb. As I sat recomposing myself after this unexpected sneak attack, I thought, “A real love for people would cause the innkeeper to fix up this place and to be truly, proactively interested in their comfort. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot truly be gracious in the middle of unaddressed decay.”

I reflected on what I’d been hearing in the conference. “When you approach people as having value in themselves, you deal with them in the richest manner possible. When you approach them as objects, you deal with them less richly.” So, here’s Buddy, running an Inn. He wants to be known as a gracious host, but he doesn’t care for his property or fix the many booby traps around the place. The message I get is, “Sonny wants paying customers, but people annoy him.”

If Buddy pours on the charm and gets more empathic, it will not alleviate the problem. People need to be safe before they need to be entertained or complimented. Taking good care of things often translates as taking good care of people.

Did I share that little gem with Buddy? No, I’m the quiet majority the customer service research warns about, “For every one customer who complains, 28 will be unhappy and not speak up, and 26 of those won’t come back.”

There was a lesson in this for me. Facility management is perhaps the least favorite of my tasks. I would rather enjoy happy people than fiddle with objects. But the only way I can actually honor people is to use objects to bless them. Short of that, I am actually using them as objects to bless me.

What Is "Good"?

[Yep, more to come here, as well.]