Category Archives: Personal Notes

Christmas

Points of Light

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I’ve been busy putting up Christmas lights around the house and outdoors.  As long as the temperature isn’t below zero Fahrenheit, it’s a pleasant task.  I feel as though I’m creating something new and worth the effort.  It’s an advent in every sense of the word, and there is anticipation that something very good is about to happen.  Lights bring an energy to the night, a comfort, an aesthetic hope that somehow we’ll always find a way through the dark times of our lives.  I think it’s why we put lights up and why passers-by enjoy them.

Lights are not always easy to work with.  Usually, before they can assume their proper role, they are a tangled mess.  Even right out of the new box, there are ties to be unwound and stretching to be done so that each string of lights can reach their full extent.  Time usually generates the flexibility necessary for best performance, though time can also introduce deterioration in some lines.  In those cases, dependability becomes suspect and I generally lose patience in working with those lights.  And patience is an essential in working with lights!

Reliability is a big issue with lights: you want to have confidence that after you’ve put them up and turned them on they’ll work.  Few things are more frustrating than investing time and effort into a new string of lights and then having them fail.

Failure can come about for a number of reasons.  Power is always a factor.  If the source of power is compromised in any way, the lights will never shine.  Likewise, if the power does not reach every bulb in the string, only a very few of the lights will glow.  I’ve been intrigued by some claims which suggest that a line of lights will stay lit even if one or more burn out, but I haven’t had much success with those.  It’s been far more common that every light in a string dims and eventually goes out when other bulbs are not working.  Bulbs need to be checked and replaced when that happens.  It’s tedious and sometimes difficult work, especially if it’s cold outside or the project is a large one with lots of other lights that could be affected.  It seems as though when I start working with them I can never quite tell exactly where the problem lights are going to be; otherwise, I’d place them in a way so as to be more quickly accessible.  But lights are among the most fickle of things.  When I test them, they all seem to shine.  But in use, there are always one or two that are burned out.

My friends who never put up lights sometimes ask me why I do it.  They rightly point out that it’s time-consuming and often uncomfortable, not to mention the expense of energy.  I suppose they’re correct in those observations, if I think dispassionately about them.  But there are times, I’ve heard it said, when it’s best to think with one’s head but follow one’s heart, and that’s what has always encouraged me to work with lights.  I can even recall the first “energy crisis” in 1974, when neighborhoods went dark on winter evenings because of the fear of not enough capacity for everyone to be served.  Katie and I still placed a couple of strings  down our front railings, just to remind ourselves (and anyone else who might have been looking) that lights can be very special, even in the darkest times, maybe even more so with diverse colors.

I’ve got everything completed now, or at least for the time being.  I’m ready for the forces of nature, come what may.  Whether it be the cold winds that howl and tug at the light strings, the snows that cover everything until even the lights can’t be seen, or the slick, freezing rains  that are slippery enough to bring down the most stable display, nature will do its best to have its own way.  But for now, we have lights.  And we’ll work all winter to keep them lit….

 

 

 

 

 

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A Delicate Balance

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I’ve been thinking about balance in our lives.  It’s a condition we strive for in all the facets of our very busy days, and without the conscious awareness of it I suspect most of us would quickly fall seriously “out of balance. ”  That short phrase suggests that something in our work or relationships or even our health is out of alignment and thus posing some kind of a threat to our well-being.  The issue is no less true, no less evident, in charitable development operations, where all the players are all jockeying for something, often unspoken, often merely intimated, and even potentially dangerous.

The proposals received by funders like WPF are meant to encompass both the heart and soul of the organizations seeking favor.  The narratives usually include historical recounting of how the organizations grew into existence, the hardships and challenges faced, the holistic benefits that they seek to offer their beneficiaries and the budgetary plans to make all of that magic happen.  Sometimes, it’s even all true.  Oftentimes, it constitutes little more than a picture of what the leaders would like it to be or, even worse, merely what they believe the funder would like to hear.

It’s a bit of a game.  The requestor tries to articulate the words and ideas that will resonate with the funder, and over the years has likely become quite savvy about what stories seem to “work.”  Meanwhile, the funder attempts to discern exactly what is being proposed within the words and interviews, remaining steadfast with its assistance objectives and requirements while trying to be practical about what rural peasants are capable of accomplishing.  A fair amount of cat-and-mouse likely drains energy from both sides.  But sometimes a balance is reached and a partnership is formed, for better or for worse.  The organization gains access to credit or grant funds, and the funder either gets repaid or receives a report about results.  It all happens under the term “development,” and sometimes good results are created.

It’s the same kind of balance that makes for successful business organizations.  The very best corporations create a balance between executive decision-making and the serious consideration of perspectives from the rest of the organization.  Too little of it results in an organization that feels little loyalty or ownership; too much of it creates delays and dysfunction for lack of agility.  Organizational boards of directors face the same balancing act of knowing how far to reach into the minutiae of operations versus watching the entity from a much higher level.  Such balance constitutes the art of organizational governance.

Non-profits have to follow the same laws of balance in their own pursuits of success.  Knowing when to press and when to accept, differentiating personal perspectives from essential truths, knowing how to rely upon experience and wisdom rather than claiming it, wielding authority instead of serving through it; these are critical hallmarks of enduring organizations of substance.

Economic theories, sociological precepts, historical milieu and political postures notwithstanding, progress comes down to the motives and the integrity of individuals.  Naturally, each has been shaped by the influences of those external factors.  But in the end, success or failure is a result of our willingness to maintain balance….

 

 

 

 

Education, Interdependence

Leaving the Light On, Part 2

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In Part 1 of this blog post, published here last week, I began recounting the events of February 15.  While visiting the remote north end of Madeline Island during this cold and snowy winter, a blizzard blew in from the northeast.  By evening, the conditions were entirely whiteout and bitterly cold.  But to the astonishment of my wife and me, our doorbell rang at approximately 6:30.  A young man- hatless, red-faced and breathless- tried to tell us of his plight.

“I’ve got to get my girlfriend up from our snowmobile at the base of your cliff; she’s still down there.  We were out on the lake and the storm rolled in and when I headed for shore my GPS died.  So I tried to keep a straight course for the mainland but must have been turned around and we drove until I saw a large black mass ahead.  I slowed down, thinking it was land, but as I got closer I saw that it was open water!  We turned around and headed back the way we came, and then my headlamp went out.  I couldn’t see a thing in the whiteout, so I tried to follow my own tracks.  I had to take off my helmet to have even a chance of seeing anything.  We had about given up when I thought I saw a dot of light in this direction.  I headed for it and as we got closer, the light became brighter and more continuous.  I followed it right to the base of your property.  But my girlfriend is still down on the snowmobile; I couldn’t get her up the cliff.  I climbed up myself and got to your door.  I don’t even know where I am.  We need some help.”

The story was a lot to take in, standing there in the doorway with a blizzard on the other side of it.  I was amazed that anyone out on the ice could have possibly seen the yard light I had turned on to watch the snowfall.  The cliff that he had scaled is a good 70 feet of vertical, ice-coated sandstone.  The woods that he had waded through confronted him with 100 yards of waist-deep snow.  The young man needed to catch his breath and his calm before anything further.

“We never even checked the weather while we were out there,” he lamented.  “I couldn’t believe how bad it was when looked out at 4:30.  And then we couldn’t see anything at all.  Man, when we saw that open water we were scared out of our minds.  We just tore away from there.”  As he rambled on, I thought about dialing  911 on the Island, or calling my contractor friend Tibbs, and wildly thinking about who else might be able to render some serious assistance if it became needed.  But not tonight.  For better or worse, we were the rescuers.

We agreed that the first order of business was to somehow help his girlfriend up the cliff and into the warm house.  I provided stout rope and a large-beam flashlight, and he assured me that he would be able to help her up with only these tools.  While he headed back to the edge of the cliff, I dressed for the storm and prepared the car for a journey to La Pointe, despite the conditions of the night.  Katie shut down the kitchen and prepared herself and Murphy for our unplanned outing.  On this night of all nights to remain indoors, we prepared to go out.  Finally, some twenty minutes later, the two wayward adventurers came in from the cold at last.

The young woman stumbled into the room with her boyfriend right behind.  Her hair was soaking wet, her face a burned crimson from the cold.  Her snowmobile suit had become caked with snow and ice, which began to melt in the warmth of the entry room.  Katie offered a hot drink.  She accepted even as she crumpled to the floor with exhaustion.  I could tell that the young man felt some relief, having his girlfriend finally indoors, but his questions continued to pour out faster than I could answer them.

“How far are we from La Pointe?  How far is that from the mainland?  Do you have any gas that I could buy, to try to make it to La Pointe?  What time is it?  Is there anyone in town at all?”  As he fired the questions, it dawned on me that these two pilgrims were the ones who had occupied the solitary space on the ice, away from the cluster of fishers we had seen earlier in the day.

I explained to this thawing apparition that he had come ashore at the far end of Madeline Island, 14 miles from the town of La Pointe, or at least as the crow flies.  But with no light for the sled, he would have to follow all of the bays and inlets along the shoreline to navigate to town.  “I don’t have enough gasoline for that,” he said.  Additionally, I had no gasoline at all.

As we answered his questions, his frenzied energies began to ease a bit and he elaborated on the story of how they came to be in our house.  “After we lost the GPS, I figured that we could stop and put up our fishing hut again if we had to, because I had two bottles of propane that probably would have kept us OK for heat through the night.  But we didn’t really want to stay out there all night.  I really thought we were on a straight line back to the mainland when we left.  Then I started to notice that there were more frequent ice upheavals and we hadn’t really seen many of them before.  It turns out that they were more of them toward the edge of that open water.”  He stopped talking for a moment and stole a quick glance at his girlfriend sitting on the floor.  “I couldn’t believe that water.  If we had gone in, nobody would have ever found us; our tracks would have been totally covered by morning.”

The hot cocoa was working its magic on the young woman by now and soon she was on her feet again.  The two made it clear that their objective was to not only get back to their truck on the mainland this night, but also to travel back to their homes, nearly two hours away from where the truck had been parked.  Their plan was to return to the Island on Sunday, drive out to our location with fresh gas and the advantage of daylight, and then rendezvous in La Pointe for the eventual trip home.

The young man asked, sheepishly, whether we might be willing to drive them all the way to the mainland across the ice road which linked the two lands.  But I had to invoke my long-held pledge that I would never drive across the ice at night, for any reason.  Too many horror stories about vehicles taking the plunge into the frigid waters of Superior had long ago disavowed me of any appetite for that kind of adventure.  I apologized for my reticence and vowed that we’d get them to La Pointe and whatever other forms of help they might need, though I had absolutely no idea who or what we might find in town on this storming night….

Once again, time and space tell me to stop for now.  I’ll conclude this tale and what it has to teach next week in the final part.  I hope you’ll come back for the ending….

 

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Leaving the Light On, Part 1

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On February 15, my wife and I were huddled indoors with Murphy the dog on a particularly brutal winter’s eve.  The temperature had remained consistently at -25F, with a strong wind driving the windchill factor down to -35F.  What made the night feel even colder still was the fact that we were at the far end of Madeline Island on Lake Superior.  When the closest neighbor is a full mile or more away, the temperatures feel colder.  The night is darker.  But the “cosiness factor” is also more intense, and  we went about the business of preparing our dinner with the comforts of a roaring fire and soft music to thaw any chills.  The warmth and the mood on this night were not to endure, however.

The day had passed quietly.  The severe cold had ensured that most people would stay indoors to indulge their warmer pursuits.  Nonetheless, a group of eight snowmobilers had congregated out on the lake into a little community perhaps a half-mile from the point of our property.  They had erected their portable ice fishing shelters and spent most of the morning and into the afternoon there, presumably with lines dropped into auger holes in pursuit of fish.  Of note, a single snowmobile and shelter also had taken up a solitary position further out on the lake in a show of independence.  We admired their sense of adventure while suspicious of their judgment on such a day.

At approximately 2:15 in the afternoon, the small congregation of ice fishers quite suddenly broke camp, loaded up their shelters and almost as if on cue left their location on the ice, heading back toward the mainland.  The departure was so swift, and completed in such unison, that it gave the appearance of flight.  We noted with curiosity the speed of the abandonment, until some twenty minutes later, when we could see the approach of a snowstorm from the northeast.  Clearly, this band of fishers had been monitoring the weather reports and knew when to strike camp.

The storm swelled across the frozen lake within minutes, and the promised blizzard arrived without reservation.  Howling snow and wind pummeled our front yard inlet- Devil’s Cauldron, so aptly named for just such occasions- and inside we instinctively stoked the fires in response.  The night would be of storybook proportions, with the three of us seeking the warmth and comfort of each other.  So we thought.

At 6:30, our doorbell rang.  That would have been a surprising event in the best of circumstances in the middle of summer.  But in the middle of a raging blizzard, at the end of Madeline Island, the ringing bell was nearly incomprehensible.  Initially, I thought it must have been the telephone, such was the unlikeliness of the ring.  Not knowing what to expect, I grabbed a Bowie knife instinctively and allowed Murphy to lead the way to the back door as I turned on every house and yard light I could reach.

At the door stood a young man, fully dressed in a heavy snowmobile suit but without helmet or gloves.  His face glowed a cherry red, his blond hair waving uncontrollably in the wind.  When I opened the door, his eyes opened wide and words poured from his mouth almost faster than he could form them.  I could barely comprehend the predicament he presented.

“I’ve never been so glad to see a human being in all my life,” he gasped.  “I need help.”

In the interest of length, Part 2 of this incident will be recounted in my next update, scheduled for one week from now. I hope you’ll come back to hear more of the story….

 

 

 

Reflections, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections

Fernando

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I was asked recently about my most memorable encounter in Nicaragua.  I didn’t really have to think very long about the question, despite the fact that I have traveled there several times each year since 2006 and had experienced an earlier introduction to the country in 1990.  I have had many wonderful, frustrating, inspiring, motivating and sad moments during those visits.  But there is one that stays with me like no other.   It’s a moment from my earliest visit that will be in my heart and mind forever, one of those transforming moments that further shapes who I am.  I relate it frequently when I speak on behalf of the Foundation and I share it here for your consideration:

The back end of the pickup truck was absolutely filled with kids.  They sat scrunched and huddled there, seemingly glad to be done with the outdoor church service we had just attended, and eager as could be to learn something, anything, about the North American visitors who had come to their community.  Not many of us had come to this part of Nicaragua, perhaps.  For some of the littlest ones- maybe three or four years old- perhaps we were the first gringos they had seen.  But they hung on every word we spoke through rough translation and pounced on every question we asked as if it belonged to each of them alone.  

I had connected with one young boy in a special way.  We had greeted one another earlier in the day, in a location very distant from where we now stood.  Yet, when I climbed off the bus which had brought us to join this neighborhood church service, suddenly there he was, hand extended again, a friend from an earlier hour.  I had no idea how he came to be at this place.

Fernando was maybe ten, but certainly more shrewd than his years.  We talked and joked in gestures.  And seated in the back of that pickup truck among so many other little faces, Fernando finally asked me if I had any children of my own.  With great pride I pulled my wallet and flipped to the pictures of katie and our kids.  The entire truck sagged to the back end as the children strained to see the pictures.  They laughed in delight.  But Fernando sat back, his face serious in thought.  Amidst the laughter, I wondered what was on his mind.

He leaned forward after a bit and put his fingers to his eyes, as if to appear Asian.  It had not escaped his notice that all four of my children are Korean-born.  He puzzled over it because Katie’s picture clearly showed that she is not Korean.

I explained, as best I could, that my four children were  akk adopted from Korea, but my children nonetheless.  He asked if I loved them.  I said, with all my heart.

Then, he pierced my heart.  He asked whether I would adopt him.  That his mother and father would not mind, as long as he was going to a better life.  That he was a good kid.  And that he was sure that I could love him.  He didn’t know the half of it.  Looking into the dark eyes and faces of those children, I could have been seeing the beautiful, dark features of my own kids.  I was chilled to think of them in this impoverished environment.  Perhaps as Fernando’s own parents were.  The idea that Fernando believed his parents would be accepting of his adoption in order to find “a better life” has haunted me for twenty-four years.

A fellow adoptive parent once said about our kids, “Well, you know, they are not really your children.  They are universal children, belonging to all of us.  As all children are.”  In one very real sense, he was absolutely correct.  We- you, me, all of us- are responsible for the lives and the well-being of our kids.  And I came to truly know the truth of it in the face of a little boy called Fernando….

 

 

 

Life in the U.S., Life in the U.S., Life in the U.S.

Feeling Good About What You Do

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One of the speakers at last weekend’s Peace Prize Forum was Michael Posner, Professor of Business and Society at NYU’s Stern School of Business.  Posner has been a prominent voice in support of human rights protections in global business operations and the force behind the first-ever center on business and human rights at a business school.  He had much to observe about the state of business integrity and corporate values, but one of his comments stood out especially.  In response to an audience question, he mused, ” I have no doubt that there are corporate people who want to go home at night feeling good about what they do.”  I missed a good deal of the rest of the program as I considered his observation.

It seems likely to me that most of us, given a choice, would prefer going home at the end of the day feeling good about how we had spent our time.  It’s hard to imagine that there might really be those who would prefer having wasted their time or, worse, engaged in activities that impacted others and the world negatively.  (This belief acknowledges the exception of sociopaths and other deviants who are outliers in the range of human norms.)  The vast majority of us seek not only positive monetary rewards for what we do, but also the intrinsic rewards of bringing something positive to our workplace and to others, however large or small that might be.  But  I find myself wondering how many of us actually succeed in doing so.  And I’m a bit nervous about the answer to the corollary question: how does my own view about what I do compare to how the world sees my efforts?

The reality is likely that there’s a gulf between wanting to feel good about what we do and actually having the basis for doing so.  Feeling good about what we do presupposes that we are actually doing something that warrants feeling good about.  And therein lies the potential problem, because too often we have little or no understanding of the impact of what we do, intended or not.

Nowhere is this conundrum more puzzling and maddening than in development work, like that undertaken by Winds of Peace in Nicaragua.  In a place of such need, where any gesture of assistance might seem to be an act of uplifting compassion,  I have witnessed the occasional unintended, undermining effects that such generosity can create.  Even Winds of Peace has experienced its moments when we have reflected on a grant or loan and recognized only after the fact that our support may have actually eroded a community’s sense of independence, sustainability or even their dignity.   Maybe it even enabled some self-defeating behaviors.  (Learning is a wonderful phenomenon, but it can be painful as it occurs.)

Doing good work, whether in a corporation or a foundation or on a farm, doesn’t simply happen.  It requires not only whatever technical tools are needed for the job to be done, but also a careful introspection of our motives, a sensitivity to equitable results, an understanding of the outcomes, and the discipline to bring those outcomes into reality.  Simply feeling good about what we do can be achieved by anyone-  all it takes is  a willingness to fool ourselves.  If the “feeling good” part of the equation is for our own benefit, then the work that has been done  begs for scrutiny.   More important than how we feel when we go home at night is whether those we  serve feel good about what has transpired.

Significant accomplishments never come easily.  The works of Nobel Peace Prize laureates are immersed in decades of persistence, selflessness and courage.  Advances in medicine and science occur after generations of trial-and-error, careful analysis of fact and relentless commitment.  Sustainable development in the world has been built upon the listening partnerships forged between the weak and the strong who share a need for justice.  Doing vocation that truly allows us to go home at night feeling good about what we do will never be the result of self-delusion.  It only happens as a result of intentionality, integrity and  careful hard work….

Making An Impact, Making An Impact, Making An Impact, Making An Impact, Rural development, WPF partners

The Lesser Good

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I feel as though I’ve learned a great deal since given the opportunity to work with Winds of Peace.  Moving from a corporate to a non-profit environment required a shift in perspective, to be sure, but also an enormous shift in the context in which WPF work is done: instead of thinking in terms of bigger- faster- stronger, the focus is on smaller- slower- weaker- more needful, terms which have tended to constitute the profile of our more typical rural partner.   Make no  mistake, our focus is on those who have the least voice and power.

WPF has taken its grants and loans deep into the rural Nicaraguan interior, precisely because that’s where relatively few other funders have chosen to go.  We know that it takes more work.  Locations are tougher to visit.  Credit experience of partners there is less.  The risks are higher.  Greater presence in the form of our accompaniment is required.  But we wouldn’t have it any other way.

In this learning cycle of mine, I am struck by the posture of some other funders who also claim to be “looking out for the little guy.”  There are organizations in Nicaragua which truly provide essential assistance and long-term development results to its small partners.  But all too often, I experience organizations which seem to have other motives at heart and which, in the pursuit of those motives, create as many obstacles as improvements.  Let me cite a couple of examples.

The small medical clinic founded by The  Union of Organized Women of Yasica Sur (UMOYS) represented a first for their communities and immediately became a source of great pride.  With important facilitative help from PRODESSA (a leading social and economic research, development and training entity), the women have become a strong voice for themselves and their families, as they have learned the lessons of self-responsibility.  Yet twice, a doctor serving the rural clinic was recruited away by a large U.S. funder working to staff their own medical facility.  One could posit that a nice, new medical facility in rural Nicaragua is a good and needed thing, and that providing medical professionals is essential to its function.  But the cost to the women and the residents of the Yasica Sur area has been high, both in terms of available medical services and the lessons that some of the women may have learned about an illusion of self-responsibility.  I have heard defense of the action as serving “the greater good.”    But in my view, the case represents one more example of the unempowered being further disenfranchised.

A second example involves another U.S. funder.  In turns out that WPF and this organization both supported a second-tier cooperative that defaulted on its coffee loans due to management malfeasance.  As a result, the tiny producer coops were left holding the note on more than $4 million that they never saw.  WPF funded an analysis in the aftermath, to help the individual coops re-group and hopefully survive the ruins, while the other funder undertook an audit of the activities, with both parties agreeing to share their respective results with each other and the producer-members.  The audit, however, was never shared.  While it might well have shed light on responsibility and ultimate culpability, and served as a stunning teaching moment for the producers, the U.S. organization has chosen to suppress it. Instead, they feel their interests are better served in working with the newly-elected successor board of the second-tier coop, which does not favor transparency.

The result?  The producer coops will still be on the hook for $4MM and will likely collapse.  They will have no insight as to the cause of the malfeasance.  No one will be brought to justice due to a culture of silence and control.  And the U.S. organization will choose its course based on the best chances for their own financial recovery, ostensibly to continue helping rural Nicaraguans,  presumably for “the greater good.”

There may be some truth in that concept, depending upon the context in which it’s being used.  Maybe there’s justification in turning one’s back on the least empowered among us to further the development of the majority.  But not here.  Not for WPF.  If an organization’s objective is to be a presence in the lives of those who have been most oppressed and marginalized, (“the lesser good”), then accompaniment must be reliable and consistent.  For us, that does not translate into naivete or allowing WPF to be taken advantage of.  But it does mean pressing for just results in an environment where injustices can be perpetrated even in the name of a greater good….

 

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Worlds Apart

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Whenever I begin to prepare for the next visit to Nicaragua, in this case next week, thoughts about the vast differences between home and there inevitably come alive.  I suppose it’s due, in part, to some protective mechanism which serves to blunt the culture shock that I always feel, both coming and going.  It’s difficult to not reflect on the differences.  After all, when I leave the frozen tundra of Minneapolis, the temperature could well be minus 30 degrees Fahrenheit, as it has been over the past week.  That will stand in stark contrast to the 80 degree temperature I’ll likely encounter when getting off the plane in Managua.  It truly does feel like a different world!

But my thoughts in preparation for leaving have little to do with the weather.  I am always struck by and need to prepare for the reality of how the two countries are supposedly worlds apart, and how I feel about that. Continue reading Worlds Apart →