The White Collar Recession

8/14/2019 The White Collar Recession

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The White Collar Recession


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Part One- Awareness: Coyote Continuity

When an economy turns, the first response isnt denial, but coyotecontinuity. Nothing seems to have changed. If youre still attractingcustomers, delighting them, and making payroll, nothing in yourexperience confirms that you are, like Chuck Jones Looney Toons

character Wile E. Coyote, already running on thin air, familiar mesafalling ever further behind you.

No one notices big shifts. We might notice others failing, but we imaginethese caused by some character flawpoor planner, weak manager,greedy speculator. Never simply bad luck or tectonic movement. Evenafter the Madoff scandal makes headline news, we imagine some closecorrelation between wealth and intelligence, and the loss of wealth orincome as evidence of some shameful personal shortcoming. Were morelikely to whisper about anothers stumble than notice our own.

Fact is, our economy grew to specialize in making the best danged buggy whips in theuniverse, and nobodys buying buggy whips now.

Weve done this before.

A few years ago, I interviewed the Chief Financial Officer of one of the two remaining ex-buggy whip manufacturers in what was a hundred years ago the center of a burgeoningbuggy whip industry, Westfield, Mass. His industry-leading company was called U. S. Whipuntil well into the 1920s when, faced with certain extinction in spite of being masters oftheir universe, they stumbled aside to reconsider what they really knew how to do, howthey might produce real value in the world.

After two decades of coyote continuity, losing altitude, U. S. Whip became U. S. Line, soonto become the leading braider of fishing line in the world. They decided that their uniquevalue proposition might be in braiding, and they chose to stop braiding buggy whips, a

necessary identity-crushing shift that only took twenty years and most of their corporatetreasury to acknowledge. Denial came in attempts to legislate laws requiring buggy whipholders on all horseless carriages, but their industry evaporated anyway, displacing everymaster craftsman and reliable supplier up and down their supply chain.

Each of these, in turn, experienced over-running their personal mesa and learning how toaccept their world on previously unimagined terms at the least convenient time.

This shift is destructive, but also holds the potential for creativity and renewal. There are noguarantees except that things will be disorientingly different. So different that the firstglance will notice no difference at all. What will I do in response? I will make my buggywhips faster, better, and cheaper until my inventory smothers me. Then I might notice theabsence of solid ground beneath me, then gravity will have her way. I will be inventing a

parachute on the way down. Youd do this too. Its only human.

Those who imagine themselves still standing on solid ground might well imagine correctly.At ten percent unemployment, ninety percent are still employed. The government has longbeen by far the largest contributor to Walla Wallas economy, though the security of eventhose jobs is threatened by the hard choices being made by people far away from here.

What makes this one different? The disappearing white collar jobs, previously held by well-educated, highly-skilled, well-paid professionals. They do not qualify for the blue collar


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safety-net. Their average gross earnings over the past year exceed the maximum allowableto qualify for food stamps. They were sole proprietors, and dont qualify for unemploymentcompensation. Some were entrepreneurs who invested a lot more than forty hours per weekin their careers and sometimes earned a lot less than minimum wages in return. Where willthey go now? What will they do?

They might be re-trainable down the food chain, to drive truck or work transientconstruction rebuilding our crumbling infrastructure. But not in that tie. And not in thoseshoes. Our first generation to graduate from college sent back to trade school. Some arguethat this is a waste.

The economists call this Creative Destruction, and claim its a normal part of every healthyeconomy. We invent britches, learn to efficiently manufacture and distribute them,outsource their manufacture and distribution, then outgrow them, leaving everyone kickingair on the far side of some personal mesa.

However numbing the numbers might feel, the personal experience is painful. I amsuddenly a member of the white collar unemployed. Im over-qualified but lacking in specificexperience, expecting too much while willing to settle for almost anything. Worse, Im in

danger of losing more than my identity in this, and I feel my identity melting. I dont knowwho I am anymore, where I might reasonably aspire to grow, what I might do withoutmerely fooling myself into believing there might be a secure future there.

Out of options, out of ground, but at least, at last, coyote-aware of the gravity of mysituation. Of our situation.

This ones different. Recently, the UBs Web Producer Jeremy Gonzalez captured commentsfrom citizens on Main Street. It wont be so bad here. They should have marketed moreagressively. Were the center of our universe. Wile E. couldnt have said any of it better.

Attend the Ports Economic Development Committee Meetings (hey, its a free lunch!), andhear the grim statistics reinterpreted into more reassuring form. I announced that I was

there representing the White Collar Recession. No one else was. Yet.


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The White Collar RecessionPart Two- Acceptance: The Panhandlers Paradox

That first visit to The Blue Mountain Action Council feels like atrip to the principals office. Oh, the staff doesnt look downat me. There are no humiliating accusations. Im the one

looking down my own long nose at myself. Never thought Idpass through here.

As I sign the form testifying that I have no income andreceive some grant money to pay my gas bill, I realize that Ihave become someone I never expected to be: low income.No income. Asking, even qualifying for help. A panhandler.

A few years ago, Amy and I were invited to make apresentation at the Changing Change ManagementConference in Vienna. Arriving at the venue, a mansard-roofed mausoleum to industry, we found milling attendees,anonymous name tags pinned on their formal lapels,

presenters showing Powerpoint slides.

Munching strudel during a coffee break, I mentioned to Amy that this conference didntseem any different. Wheres the change? Tomorrow, I proposed, Im going to show upas a panhandler. A beggar.

And I did. The next morning, I skipped shaving, dressed in ratty jeans, an inside-outsweatshirt, sneakers, and a wide-brimmed hat. I scored a large cup at the Starbucks acrossfrom the Opera, and squatted about two-thirds of the way up the grand marble staircaseevery attendee would have to climb. I wore a name tag declaring me as simply ChangeAgent.

Got any change? I implored as each delegate approached. Half the people were able to

make both of us invisible as they passed, seemingly struck deaf, dumb, and blind by myplea. About a quarter of them complained, This is a private conference! How did you getpast security? These, I chased, asking, How can you come to a change conference withoutany change?

A quarter of the people caught my pun and contributed. After an hour, Id accumulatednearly twenty euro in change and utterly changed the tone and tenor of the conference. Ipromised the folks attending our session that I would leave my change in the alms box of alovely little church on the far side of the city, so the end of the day found Amy and I waitingin a cold wind for the Ringtram.

Thats where we met Anthony, pronounced with that watery lisp common to Viennese

German. Anthony was a wheelchair-bound Macedonian immigrant: greasy-haired, fleck-toothed, obviously indigent.

Where was that tram?!!!

Got any change?

I had two pockets brimming with meaningless change, which Id pledged to an anonymousalms box. I tried to make myself invisible, but failed. Change? Anthony pleaded. I partedwith about sixty cents, secretly hoping that would make him disappear, but it encouraged


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him. We learned, over the course of the millennium waiting for that tram, that Anthony hada wife and kids, liked Aarnood Sthwartzanegga movies, and possessed a disarminglyinfectious presence. We chatted warily, me protecting my change, him freely sharing his lifestory.

When that tram finally arrived, he asked again, Got any more change? I begrudgingly

pulled out another euro or so from my straining pockets before disappearing into that tram.

Arriving at the church, I could find no alms box, so I plugged in my change with the candleofferings, chasing out a penitent worshiper with my clatter.

Ive wondered many times since what kept me from just giving my change to someone whohad fully qualified himself as worthy of it. Anthony had acknowledged my presence,effusively accepted me, and encouraged me to give no more than I could easily afford. Me, Ibarely acknowledged his presence in return, only distantly accepting my potential asbenefactor. I gave a little, but I know in my heart that I blew it. Big time!

Acceptance entails a whole lot more than getting over denial. And a whole lot less. My ownsmall, desperate step through the Blue Mountain Action Councils door confirmed my

hesitant, personal acceptance of the way things were for me in that moment. I anticipatedpunishment, bureaucratic abuse, but found, instead, warm acceptance. Nobody questioningmy dedication, competence, or work ethic. I met someone more poised than I have everbeen to accept me as I presently am.

The paradox, the confounding contradiction every white collar unemployed confronts,involves asking for help when schooled by a lifetime of experience on the opposite side ofthat transaction. My acceptance of my own current, hopefully short-lived neediness allowsothers to fulfill their mission. Perhaps to discover a purpose previously hidden from theirown perspectives.

I suppose every skilled panhandler already understands this paradox. The act of giving is nomore or less blessed than the act of receivingboth are sacred. This blessing cannot appear

without acceptance from both parties. The Anthonies we encounter are angels, inviting morethan simple generosity. That my sudden presence in the white-collar unemployed multitudemight make me an angel for anyone else, demands some deep considering from thishumbled angel-in-training.


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The White Collar RecessionPart Three- Authorship: My Own Self-Help Book

You have to know enough to be cynical, yet still choose not to becynical.

Shift happens! Sometimes even the best cowboy ends up beneathan upraised tail.

Its easy, perhaps even useful to accept full responsibility forpositioning, but accepting the way things are doesnt mean thatanyone caused anything. We generally reap what we sow, but anyfarmer can tell stories of sometimes reaping a whole lot less thanhe planted. Luck happens, too.

Continued belief that I cause what befalls me in life has helped fillmy therapists calendar, and usually results in cynical resignation,leaving me simply, helplessly, hopelessly bobbing on an endlesslyhostile sea.

There must be some middle ground between accepting complete personal responsibility andblowing off all culpability. Sure, had I chosen a different major, a different career, adifferent job, a different life, things would doubtless be a whole lot different now. But eachof these alternatives requires changing the past. Failing to change the past sits atop thelong list of pursuits holding the greatest potential for creating cynicism.

In his remarkable book Learned Optimism, Dr. Martin E. P. Seligman describes his studiesshowing how to induce helplessness. Disengage the connection between effort and reward.Sounds like unemployment. Dr. Seligman wondered whether, if helplessness could belearned, optimism could also be learned. He discovered that the story a person tells toexplain their experience makes a lot of difference. Curiously, those who describe their badluck as evidence of some personal shortcoming, struggle more to recover from their

stumbles. Quite independent of any real cause, the story I tell myself deeply influences myagility when coping with the experience.

I am writing my own story. This is not simply a matter of painting a smile over my grimace.Authorship requires a certain if-you-knew-the-world-would-end-tomorrow, would-you-still-plant-a-tree hopefulness. I didnt cause the credit crisis that evaporated the demand for mywork, but I amor had better befully responsible for how I surf the big sucking hole itleaves behind.

It might not matter a lick what I do right now, but it better matter to me how I do it. I needto know enough about whats going on around, through, and to me to support adebilitatingly cynical outlook AND I hold the personal responsibility to still, in spite or

because of this, choose not to become cynical.

If I dont know enough to be cynical, Im simply naivean easy mark. I might buy self-helpbooks instead of writing my own story, searching for someone, anyone to deliver me frommy own situation, leaving me feeling only more helpless.

If I choose to be cynical, I forfeit what little leverage I have left. Resigned to a fate I amcertain I dont deserve, I might chose the only certain way to lose this fragile game. Giveup. Cynicism adds terminal weight, smothering every scenario except the one no one wantsand everyone fears.


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I am a published author. Like every published author before me and since, I discoveredsomething important when my book was accepted for publication. It would be edited. Iwould rename, rewrite, reorganize and rethink what I submitted as a finished manuscript.The result was better and the process for achieving that result, challenging.

Its no different writing a resume. I envy my wife Amys ability to recraft her resume,reframing her past to fit whatever opportunity appears before her. Exactly the same pastreflected in a variety of ways. Her story so vibrant, her past seems alive.

For us white-collar newly unemployed, its been a while since we were unable to publishpretty much whatever we decided to write. We understandably thought we caused our pastgood fortune, and maybe we did.

We are each still writing our story, a recent plot twist making it a mystery now. I still get tochoose whether it becomes a comedy, a tragedy, or an epic seething with redemption,though lately written with what feels like the merest stub of a blunt pencil.


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The White Collar RecessionPart Four- Articulation: Finding My Voice Again

Self respect is the first casualty of bankruptcy. The spacebetween respectability and shame must have always been hairthin. Time slows to infinity in the moment I abandon the rusty

belief that I might actually dodge this bullet and accept that Illhave to take it, hoping for no more than a flesh wound.

Then shock sets in.

Me, I couldnt talk about it. Whistling around the carpet-concealing carcass, I held mybreath, my thoughts, and my voice; then I carried on. What else was I supposed to do?

The bankruptcy attorney was perfunctory, matter of fact, only interested in the barestinformation. A God-send for anyone too ashamed of himself to speak. The bankruptcytrustee, reviewing our accounting of personal property asked simply, What happened?

Business cycle, I guess, I replied, deeply ashamed that someone might publicly survey my

meager treasures. Books, worth little but landfill to anyone but me. A twenty year old car.Odds and ends of ancient furniture, each with its own resonant story. A home we might sellin a down market for as much as we owe. No evidence of profligate spending.

Whether the business failed because of bad marketing or a bad market doesnt matter now.Its gone. And with it went more than the promise of livelihood, but my whole carefullycrafted identity, leaving me simply speechless.

The myth insists that the professional remains emotionally more distant from his livelihoodthan the typical craftsman. Hooey! Anyone engaged heart-deep in their work feels the holeits absence leaves behind. And that space fills first with shame. Deep embarrassment at notcarrying my weight. Self-inflicted humiliation.

In this country, thank heavens, we have a long-standing tradition of making bankruptcy aseasy as possible, but no easier. The personal barriers to declaring it are daunting enough.In less entrepreneurial cultures, bankruptcy begets civil penalties little different from publicflogging. Our tradition is more forgiving, acknowledging that our successes come from risktaking, not simply from following the established order.

No one ever knows where the edge is until they stumble over it. And stumble we do.Eventually, I managed to stand up on something almost resembling my two legs again, andactually start talking about my situation. When I sent a note to the kind editors at the UBdescribing my experience, I could have had no idea whether they would snub or welcomemy invitation to write about what I could then only barely speak about.

Neighbors, over to the house last weekend, learned in conversation about our dire situation.Hey, we went through that two years ago. Its survivable. If you have any questions,please let us help answer them. They followed up with an invitation to dinner to moredeeply engage.

The dentist office called this week, euphemistically asking about an appointment lastSeptember. I responded that Id canceled my appointment in October, and that we wouldnot be rescheduling until our situation improves, having become indigent and all.

An hour later, the dentists office called back to say that the outstanding balance had been


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taken care of. God bless you, and please come back when your situation improves, shesaid. Amy cried when I conveyed the message. Me too.

These are tough times for some of us, made tougher by my own tough hide, insisting that Ishould certainly hide whatevers going on inside. My ancestors were proud people, made noless proud in my double-standard eyes by the washouts they experienced.

My great, great grandmother left Illinois on horseback, a fifteen year-old bride. With herlittle sister and new husband, too poor to afford a wagon, they made it as far as Union,Oregon before winter set in. Her sister died of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, and theyholed up in a lean-to until Spring, when they went back to Illinois, where they becametailors, saving their pennies until they tried again, making it only as far as NebraskaTerritory, where they settled until Oregon insisted they try again.

They made it this time, but my great, great grandfather died shortly after they arrived,leaving a young widow and seven or eight kids. They persisted. Their story is now part of aproud family epic, mostly populated with tight-lipped, tough-skinned people.

I carry on this proud family tradition in my own shameful way. Pride, it seems to me now,

might well come before a fall, but also rise following one. Until I could find my voice to addto this story, I was simply ashamed.

The deep sense that I blew it might someday blow past, until then Im learning to speak alanguage foreign to me before. No whining allowed. A certain pride in the fact that I do stillhave a voice in whatever happens to me from here.


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The White Collar RecessionPart Five- Application: Working Anyway

When a local non-profit finally contacted us about facilitatingtheir long-anticipated board retreat, we thought maybe wedfinally generate a little revenue the old fashioned way. Two

possible contracts had slipped away over prior months, asclient budgets evaporated in the economic meltdown. Wecould really use that cash.

A few days later, the board chair sent an apologetic e-mail,explaining that their primary funding had just been cut by40%, so while they really needed to work with us, theywouldnt be able to afford us after all.

I simmered a while in disappointment before looking at Amy,saying, We really need to do this work anyway. And so we did.

In the Great Depression, pork chops only cost a nickel but no one had a nickel. And few

would part with a precious pork chop for nothing, so pork chops rotted while people starvedsurrounded by plenty. How smart was that?

We could choose to respond this same way today. Or not! In economies where the flow ofmoney literally freezes, other mediums of exchange emerge. The classic beggars sign WillWork For Food, in my case reads, Will Work For Work, because not working feels like theworst possible punishment.

Now, with the economy stalled and shedding jobs, perhaps the price of simply doing workhas become priceless. This is no reason to stop doing good work. If no ones buying, I say,

Give it away!

How will we survive simply giving away our work? The real question might be how will we

survive if we cannot? Conditions have changed, and changed more radically than Id everimagined possible. I could hold myself as hostage as a nickel pork chop in this world where,for now, nobodys spending money on what I do. They still need it, and I need to do mywork.

We white-collar unemployed have been trained by a lifetime of salaried working to not countthe hours of engagement. We are perhaps more fortunate than those accustomed to tradingtheir talents by the hour. We never so much worked to live as lived to work. Not workingfeels like not living.

We make a living, Winston Churchill reflected, by what we get, we make a life by whatwe give. Those of us who have always worked to make our lives dare not cease doing our

work, even when the cash stops flowing. Theres no good reason to accept the lack ofmonetary remuneration as an excuse for not sharing our gifts.

And so, between scouring the network for real Jobs, were continuing to do our real work.My next book continues to take shape. Amy coaches and councils those in her orbit whoused to pay for that privilege, and now simply feel privileged to receive. The privilege worksboth ways.

I dont know the price of anything anymore. But Im clear about the cost of idleness. Onreflection, was I ever motivated by the money? Not really. I was motivated by the


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opportunities to do great, worthy work. Still am.

Ive held my share of menial jobs, and if they taught me anything, they taught me that if Icouldnt construct some alluring purpose for doing the work, it didnt matter what they paidme. I needed to pay myself with purpose, whatever the paycheck promised. Unemploymentis just another challenge to find my purpose again, and to apply it in a whole nuther

context.

Perhaps this period of economic uncertainty is a call for all of us to rely upon what hasalways been certain in this world. We need not be prisoners to our paycheck. Losinglivelihood does not forfeit life. We are free to give whatever we feel free to part with, and aprisoner only to what we believe we must reserve.

So, we promised that non-profits board that their retreat, under our facilitation, might begrueling. We would expect them to contribute more than they might have expected, sinceno money would change hands. Fair trade. And the sessions were grueling, sorting throughthe options for providing service with drastically reduced funding. Each encountered theirown personal invitation to find deeper purpose. And each answered their call.

After The Long Dark Night Of The Soul before the closing session, a few board membersreflected that theyd arrived convinced that they would have to resign. But somethinghappened while swimming with that swirling uncertainty, something not about funding atall. It was, I guess, about working anyway, about finding one damned good reason tocontinue doing good, necessary work in this world. And then simply doing it.

Maybe the money will follow. Maybe not. If this economy ever hits bottom, let the recordshow that we decided to keep dancing all the way down.


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The White Collar RecessionPart Six- Activism: Can You Hear Me Now?

My business made nearly $78.5 million more thanBanner Bank, $2.8 billion more than Chrysler, and awhopping $4.2 billion more than GM in the fourth

quarter of 2008. Not too shabby!

Of course, shabby is in the eye of the beholder.

Ive been writing to my US Congresswoman everyfew days, trying to help her understand that tax cutswont accomplish anything for those who dont have

any income. Us, well, we aspire to make enough to someday pay taxes again. And that willrequire work, which will require freed-up capital flows and something other than ideology-based budgeting.

She worries about inflation at a time when economists worry how the heck to induce it nowthat its needed. Shes worried about incurring long-term debt when capital markets have

frozen. And she seems most concerned about preserving a status quo that has alreadyslipped through our collective fingers.

I respect her right to disagree with history and the vast majority of economists, but I suredont understand what she expects to gain by crossing swords with the experts. Those of ussuddenly, surprisingly dangling from the economic margin marvel at her tone-deafness.

Im still writing.

Im not helpless, only sporadically hopeless, and not nearly as powerless as I feel. I have avoice thats louder than others because Ive used my voice. Ive attended the CountyCommission, City Council, and Port meetings. Ive invited candidates over to my house tomeet my neighbors and other candidates. I have coffee with elected officials. I write

respectful letters to the editor.

And Im not always a squeaky wheel seeking grease. I remember to appreciate those whodo good and stifle when I can see no good coming from anything I might say. I mow myyard, tend my trash, and help my neighbors when I can.

I hear a lot of slander these days about how Roosevelt created the Great Depression, howillegal immigrants overloaded the economy, and how people who want to work can alwaysfind jobs. Such babble has always been with us. Marie Antoinette advised her rabble to justeat cake, which seemed oh so common to her, and beyond luxury to pretty much everyoneelse.

In times like these, the leaders have usually been the last to really understand the situation.Few of them have ever successfully re-negotiated a utility bill from a position of absolutelyno leverage, thrived on less than a teen-agers allowance, or made the hard choices that theleast among us make every day. Excuse them if they are struggling to catch up, they arehindered by their lack of personal experience.

Those touching bottom can help the others understand how deep the pool actually is, but itrequires more generosity than we might imagine we can afford. Its easy to rail against theclueless, and infinitely more difficult to patiently explain again how the world looks fromdown and over here. They will not willingly open their gates to any group wielding pitchforks


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and burning torches, but might well accept your generous invitation to tea.

I have expected archetypal bad guys out there, but have yet to find any. We live in asociety where all men are assumed to have been created equal. That some are moreeconomically equal than others is simply an eternal feature of human existence. Equalitylies in our voices, unless we assume before speaking that no one will hear or we scream so

loudly that no civil civil servant would willingly listen.

My recent successes having bettered Banners, Chryslers, and even GMs performancemight give me pause to consider my standing in this freshly disoriented community. Ineednt let my success go to my head anymore than I might let my imagined failures silencemy voice. Im still here, voice intact, perhaps just a nudge more emphatic than it used tobe.

I realize that as my economic elevator has fallen, my activism has been rising. Injustice andprivilege offend me more than they ever did, while justice and equality seem all the morealluring. Ours is a troubled society, populated with people who are decent to their core. Thatwe need near constant reminding just how decent we are, merely human.

I am reminding. Can you hear me now?


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The White Collar RecessionPart Seven- Altruism: Greater Gifts

Losing work initially eroded my sense of self, but thisdepletion matured into a certain selflessness.Curiously, the poorer Ive become, the more generous

Ive felt.

2008 was a year of loss. My dad died. My businesscrumbled. My house didnt sell. My incomedisappeared. My debts defaulted. My mom moved outof the house I grew up in, into assisted living, while Imetaphorically moved out of a kind of assisted livinginto something more closely resembling where I grewup.

Everything changed! The worlds economic troubleswere mere background noise for me.

2008 was also a year of uncountable gain for me. Ireally got to know my dad, my wife, my family, mycommunity, and myself.

When youve got nothing, youve got nothing to lose. Some of us have plenty of nothing,but thats not everything we have. Scraped clean of distracting necessities, a bare bonesexistence has a lot going for it. Im beginning to understand what the old timers meantwhen they fondly remembered hard times as the good old days. There are plenty of goodnew days now, too.

We suspended gift giving last Christmas. We made not one harried purchase. We gave eachother greater gifts. Each fit. No returns.

After a time, the desire to shop dissipates. Id rather browse in the library, visit my mom, orread a great book. I even started writing songs again.

One Friday, we decided to spend the evening as the family who built our hundred year oldhouse might have spent a Friday evening. The three ten year olds groaned. No Gameboys.No TV. Fire in the fireplace. Popcorn. Personal stories told around the room. Reading sillypoetry. We giggled more than usual.

Suppers are slower now. Nothing pre-cooked, flash frozen, or previously chewed for ourconvenience. We shop around the edges of the supermarket. Meat is flavoring, not maincourse, and we save bones and peelings for stock. Little wasted. My old pants fit again.

Ive spent much of my adult life traveling somewhere else. One year, I stayed in fifty twodifferent hotel rooms. Traveling like that, I left more often than I ever came back. Waitingfor the bank to foreclose, Ive never felt more at home in this place or less attached toanywhere.

Id never characterize myself as stingy, but I will admit to moving too fast to notice othersneed. The most important things happen at the least convenient times, and velocity candegrade into inconvenience every important little opportunity to help. I was rushing into thegrocery just before Christmas, when Amy tugged my sleeve. A derelict van in the adjacentrow displayed a cardboard Homeless, Please Help! sign. I didnt have much, but I wasnt


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homeless yet. I dropped a fiver through their window.

These are small things. Tiny treasures. Greater gifts.

A sculpture entitled The Entrepreneur stands in a courtyard on the University of St Thomasdowntown Minneapolis campus. The Entrepreneur is chiseling himself out of stone. How he

fashioned his hands has always mystified me, but perhaps no longer.

These, Jesus is said to have said, holding up his own hands, are the hands of God. Thissimple declaration has been variously interpreted, but I think it must mean that my handsare the hands of God. Yours, too. The Entrepreneur gets one lucky break, he starts as morethan simply stone, but stone from which a pair of hands already protrude. What he doeswith them, he gets to choose.

Theres nothing like a dunking to convince you that youre all wet. I have plenty of time leftto reinflate my self importance. In the mean time, I have some greater gifts to deliver.Destination as yet unknown. I suspect these gifts were always intended for me, and for mealone. Had my earlier successes continued unabated, theres no telling how much I mighthave lost. Down on one knee now, I find I can more easily reach across to give, and need

no longer stoop to receive.

Through the tragedy of economic calamity wafts the scent of genuine opportunity. Therejust has to be a pony in here somewhere, and it is in here as long as I can believe it is. I'llget to shovel some of my own Shine-ola after chiseling myself out of apparently solid stone.I am reassured to reflect that only the most fortunate get to do this more than once.

Tap. Chip. Tap. Chip. One shard at a time.


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The White Collar RecessionPart Eight- Adventure: Neighborly Naked

Following publication of my book, The Blind Men and the Elephant,Mastering Project Work (Berrett-Koehler 2003), my publishers invited meto make a presentation at their Making A Difference Conference in San

Francisco. I decided to speak on the subject of Brief Consulting, atechnique Id developed with Amy to induce profound change in little time.

Invited as an expert, I fussed like a rookie over that presentation, jottingendless notes to myself while nervously pacing outside the Convention

Center. My dilemma? Like most of the most important things in this world, brief consultingisnt actually a thing, and our language proves inadequate to describe it. Further, describingit is not the same as simply doing it. Me, the successful writer, found himself beyond words.

In a flash of inspiration, I asked Amy to go find me a pair of white cotton briefs, a pair oftighty whiteys, a size or two too large. She headed off down Market Street while I nibbled atmy nails.

I began my presentation by inviting everyone who had just settled into their seats for theperformance to get up and leave the room. The room has been filled with transformingpresentations all day, I declared from behind the podium, and it needs to take a deepbreath. Go out, then come back mindful of what you want to happen here.

I received curious stares as everyone slipped out of the room to take a deep collectivebreath, then step back inside. While the crowd was thus distracted, I slipped the whiteys onover my cordoroys, and stood behind my protective podium. When everyone had foundtheir place in the newly respirated room, I started speaking.

As I explained how brief consulting relied not upon clever presentations but honest human-to-human interaction, I took off my tie and began unbuttoning my shirt. As I continueddescribing the many challenges facing anyone trying to get and stay real in the

anesthetizing atmosphere of business, I stripped off my shirt, leaving only a stark whitecotton tee. Then, I stepped sideways from my shielding podium, just behind the adjacenttable, which covered my cordoroys, but left fully exposed the briefs covering my pants.

Why do we suit up to engage in what will have to become naked conversation if we are toaccomplish anything? I asked.

The crowd roared!

There, Id explained brief consulting. Its about exposing enough of your real self to make areal difference. The old advice for nervous speakers suggests imagining the audience naked.My advice, get naked (or nearly naked) yourself. It will transform everything.

You live in a glass house. How else will the neighbors ever get over their curiosity and youlose your shyness.

This series of articles has reintroduced me to my real world. No better way to get to knowyourself and your community than to stand nearly naked in front of them. Yes, thecautionary counselors claim theres no better way to permanently ruin a reputation. The restof us know that everyone probably already knows whatever youre failing so desperately tohide.

Me, an acknowledged master of naked consulting, took a while to consider taking off my tie.


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I spent the week before the UB published the first column chasing butterflies around mystomach. I rose hesitantly that Sunday morning when the first in the series was published,expecting my e-mail in-box to catch fire before noon. The first appreciation came in aroundeight, from a college-educated former single mom, well experienced with living on the edgeof the margin. The second from a bankrupted co-owner of a recently closed local restaurant,inviting me into conversation. Im over the crying my eyes out stage, and ready to start

figuring out where to go next. Thank you for reassuring me that Im not crazy or bad.

A local church group volunteered money, clothes, food, garden helpnone of which Ineeded desperately enough. I directed their energy toward The Salvation Army.

The morning continued with warm greetings from friends and former strangers. Nopunishment. No shame.

The Friday before the UB published that first article, Amy accepted an offer to work for theNational Renewable Energy Laboratorys Washington DC office. She will be coordinating thebiomass renewable energy programs that comprise one of the clear imperatives of the newadministration. A perfect job for her! Me? Ill resolve the last few complications here beforefollowing her into yet another adventure of a lifetime.

After every experience that seems intended to only publicly strip us naked against our will,comes the humbling recognition that we might have more willingly stripped away some ofour own encumbering barriers to transformation. Yea, we were mimicking Wile E. Coyoteagain, and doubtless will be again and again, fools to our missions and foils to our ownpersonal transformations.

Amys job came from a workshop we taught together in a National Lab a decade ago. One ofthe attendees received our newsletter, and stayed in touch, hiring us to help one of hisstuck projects a few years later. Last Fall, Amy overstepped the boundaries of our formalclient/consultant relationship to confide that she needed his help. He was pleased to pointher in the direction of some promising solid ground.

Amy says the shift happened in that naked moment when she exposed the depth of herdespair. She was not rescued, but swam her own way out of the quagmire, helped bysomeone shed formerly helped navigate beyond his own quicksand.

Likewise, this series came to life one chilling winter day, when I bucked up an extra ounceof foolhardiness and asked the UBs Rick Eskil if he might be interested in an insiders lookat the economy. I wasnt sure I could even speak about it then, but understood somewhereinside, that when nothing else seems to work, a naked exposition carries the potential fortransforming almost anything.

It did and it has.

With my warmest personal regards to my community,

David Schmaltz

2009 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved Drawings by D. Wilder Schmaltz

David A. Schmaltz is a writer, teacher, songwriter, and sometimes brief [email protected]
mailto:[email protected]:[email protected]


18/19


19/19

Notes on the outline form

This series of essays follows family therapist Jean McLeandon's Seven A-s, a little personaltool intended to help work through life changes. I found each A to work like a focusing tool,helping me see a different facet of what did not seem likely to become a jewel by the timeId finished considering. But the structure worked its magic.

It starts with Awareness, which curiously seems to encourage seeing not simply the obviouscatastrophe, but possibilities. I found that I could not hold a single perspective, but had tochoose which change I would embrace.

Acceptance side-steps denial. Authorship helped me co-opt the more obvious and commonsearch for answers. If Im writing the story, Im really in charge. Articulation brought intriangulation, echo-locating. If others could hear my voice, they could help me hear myself.Application was a dandy bit of synchronicity, the board facilitation arriving just at the rightmoment to understand how application actually might be applicable.

Activism gave me something to spend my anger on besides rage. I had noticed that beforeapplication got my feet back out on the street, I was burning a lot of energy holding down

my breaks. I nearly burned out my clutch, too.

What a strange destination to find altruism waiting for me at the end of this journey. Hey, Iknew it was coming. Id seen the outline before I ever started writing this series. But I tookone stage at a time, not even thinking ahead, and waiting for inspiration to whisper into myear before ever trying to move forward.

Then I stumbled upon Adventure, an eighth A. Once rejuvenated from the seven A-s,Adventure once again.

I encourage anyone experiencing catastrophic change to sit with this outline for a spell andsee what happens for you. Im a satisfied customer. And even I cant properly explain howor why these seven A-s work as well as they do. Just that they did for me, and might also

for you.

AwarenessAcceptanceAuthorshipArticulationApplicationActivismAltruism

Adventure!

Best Wishes,

David A. Schmaltz2/19/2009Walla Walla, WA

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The White Collar Recession

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