WordFood

WordFood - how we feed or starve our realtionships

- Julia Hubbel

Julia’s ability to get this group of type-A executives to engage in true networking was incredible. She is truly skilled at motivating the group to engage and interact with each other, and her openness and honesty really come through.

— Shelley Stewart, Jr.,
Senior Vice President of Operational Excellence and Chief Procurement Officer, Tyco

September 1, 2013

The WordFood Ballpark Diet

Whether you’re a Mike Trout or a Mike Vick fan, fall is a tough time of year for non-sports fans. Then there are those for whom it’s Miller time, as the days start to cool a little, the NFL is here to stay for a while, the baseball season starts to get really interesting (Dodgers anyone?) and for people like me, the football channel is on pretty much 24/7. Others begin to salivate for hockey- remember the playoffs? or basketball- remember THOSE playoffs? and in general, we sports fans all have our fixes as fall brightens the trees.

For those who know me well, only my closest and dearest friends are allowed to call me on hallowed days like Sunday, Monday and Thursdays when games are playing. If I recognize the number, I’ll pick it up. Otherwise, I’m buried in the game. Off game time I’ll discuss fumbles and pick sixes and game winning drives with any fool dumb enough to start a football conversation with me. And here’s my point. There are times to turn this off. Despite my love for the game, which my girlfriend Lori knows will dominate the Thanksgiving table when her husband Brad and I get going, there are times you need to flip the switch for others.

Whatever you’re crazy about, be it sports, your toy train collection, your IT expertise that you love to obfuscate conversations with or the fascination you have with stilettos, when others glaze over, shut up. Listen. There are those who don’t share our passions. And sometimes we simply don’t realize that we are steamrolling- and isolating- others in our world when we overwhelm and overtalk what we love.

Guys don’t appreciate it when a group of women gather and take over the conversation to discuss the latest sales at Neiman’s or the latest news about baby clothes. Any more than women like it when the guys overwhelm a business meeting with a play-by-play that completely leaves out most of the women in the room (unless of course they’re as avid as I am). Sometimes it’s a ploy to take over the conversation. Sometimes people have no clue what they’re doing. And sometimes, they most assuredly do know, such as when an expert wields highly technical knowledge that they know you don’t only to make the point about how little you understand his specialized knowledge. It’s offensive in all cases.

There are lots of ways to respond. You can stomp out and be angry. You can join in. You can learn the language. My friend Meg was married to a sports broadcaster, and to her advantage she learned the language and the issues. It served her well- she sat for years on the boards of the country’s biggest banks, including Wells Fargo. You can gently change the subject, or ask good, intelligent questions to learn more. Be curious. Getting uptight is the worst response.

What’s perhaps most important- and I have to remember this as much as anyone in my football circles, that not everyone shares my passion for pigskin. Certainly not every man, but increasingly I find women who do. The point is to be aware of when you’re being overbearing. When someone is starting to overwhelm you, the meeting, the party, find a lighthearted way to redirect. Depending on the circumstances you may learn something new, make new friends, discover a new passion yourself.

So as we enter into my favorite time of the year, I have to remember that fall doesn’t mean football to everybody else.  Let’s stay open to other people’s interests, and gently remind them that we have a few of our own.

August 20, 2013

The WordFood of Permiso

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , — Julia Hubbel @ 6:17 am

Ever since a friend inspired me to commit to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro a number of months ago, I’ve been putting in longer hours at the gym, at Red Rocks, hiking around the neighborhood, hitting the hills, cycling, swimming, and taking on all kinds of athletic challenges to up the game in preparation for this adventure. Part of what that’s done is put me in contact with body parts that I’ve not spoken with for a while, and it’s also given me a chance to see a great many other people who are in various stages of training, at all ages, shapes and conditions.

Red Rocks Amphitheatre is a learning lab for anyone who is curious about exercise physiology. There are those who do the three hour free boot camp that is held from 8-11 on weekend days for anyone brave enough, and then there are the folks who bring their entire families to simply climb once to the top and watch everyone else sweat. As a journalist, and someone who has come to love Red Rocks for the beautiful surroundings it provides for my exercise routines, I love the place for the people I meet and their stories, especially about how they’ve learned to work within their limitations. Hence, Permiso. Permiso is about permission- when we learn to politely ask our bodies whether or not we can do this today, in this heat, at this age.

For example, the other day I met Lisette, an African American woman. She’s about 5’3, runner’s body, energetic and enthusiastic. A few years back, Lisette weighed 305 pounds. Astounded, I asked her how she did it. “No special diets, no pills, nothing,” she said proudly. “I just started out slowly and steadily, watched what I ate, and exercised as I could.” That’s what Permiso is all about. Not demanding that our bodies do what they cannot, but working within the limits and asking them to perform as they can. With respect.

Another woman, Annie Bitsy, comes out regularly. Annie is one tough cookie. Afflicted with cancer as a child, she lost her left leg. Annie does the stairs on crutches, smiling all the way up and down. Nothing slows her down. When she gets tired, she takes a shade break. That’s Permiso.

There are days that I get to Red Rocks after 8 and the sun has warmed up the concrete stairs. It gets hot fast, and running eleven laps or going up with a weighted vest is demanding. You need to slow down. One part wants to be the drill sergeant and push on. The wiser part says, “take a 30 second break here. Have some water.” That’s Permiso. You ask your body permission. When we treat ourselves with respect, feed our physical machines with food for fuel as well as pleasure, they will respond magnificently.

It is humbling and inspiring to see so many amazing people take on Red Rocks- octogenarians and Millennials alike. But what I admire most are those who tackle the facility despite a challenge, and they are working within a limitation. They teach the rest of us humility, and courage. Physical fitness is all about working with what we have, not some unreasonable and unattainable ideal. That’s Permiso, asking ourselves what we need, for a bit more effort. It’s astounding what we can do when we treat ourselves with respect- the mountains we can climb, the marathons we can run, the fitness levels we can achieve.

Ask yourself Permiso today. Where do you want to go? What do you want to do? Then as Nike says, just do it!

August 9, 2013

JunkFood We Feed Ourselves

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , — Julia Hubbel @ 5:01 pm

The other morning at 5 am, dressed in a neon bright pair of Lycra gym pants, mountain hiking boots and high socks, a weighted vest and bright pink shirt and a ball cap, I set out to do my 6.5 mile walk along the major roads near my house. Now this is to accomplish several things: break in my hiking boots, break in my feet to long hikes, build my endurance, and generally challenge my strength. Why? As mentioned earlier in this space, I have a forty mile hike to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro in November, and to do that well, you have to train for it. The best way to train for long hikes is to, well, hike. Since I’ll be carrying a 20-lb day pack, I don a weighted vest, the same one I wear to build leg strength out at Red Rocks when I climb the stairs.

So as the sun eased into the cloudy sky and I walked the sidewalk along the broad thoroughfares near my house, I bid good morning to fellow walkers, runners and cyclists. One man jerked his dog away from me when I spoke kindly to it. Two elderly women gave me the hairy eyeball when I cheerily bid them a good day.

At 6:12, I made out the sound of a siren. A female cop was waving me over, so I pulled out my earbuds and walked to her vehicle. She got out and as she approached, she started laughing. ” We got a call about a dangerous person in a bulletproof vest wandering the neighborhood,” she said. “Yah,” I said, “Some terrorist, in bright neon pants walking along all the major streets in full sight,” I chuckled.

Then I thought, how many people, terrified by overwrought police procedurals and Hollywood blockbusters, are aiming their double aughts at me from their kitchens without thinking? More than I want to know. So mid morning I was at the station with my vest, meeting the cops and giving them my ID. They are going to contact me first if there’s another fearful call, and give me fair warning about my neighbors, not the other way around. And I also just bought a bright orange safety vest.

The world changed for us after 9-11, but we also allow ourselves to be fed junk food through the programs we watch and radio we hear. Whether we are radicals or Republicans or regular Reggie, we take a diet of information that feeds our fears. If we believe we are in imminent danger, which most of us most assuredly are not, especially in my bucolic little Colorado neighborhood, then we’re likely to act out of unreasonable alarm. We don’t ask intelligent questions, like what operative would be wearing eye-searing colors and be on the major roads, or attack a calm little neighborhood when higher value targets are far more important, like the airport? Nobody thinks. We just react, out of fear. In my mind, this is how the terrorist has already won the war.

I’ve told this story to friends, who have shared both the laugh and the realization that this is the world we now live in. But everyone has a choice. What we feed ourselves, the pap that is on the talk radio shows, the overblown, overstated, out-of-proportion sensationalism that is presented as “facts” that have caused the average American to not trust his neighbor. I continue to believe in the intrinsic good of my neighbors and my country. But I shudder to think about how many of them have guns, and would have used them on me out of irrational panic yesterday morning.

Roosevelt said it years ago: “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” That is even more true today than during the Second World War. It’s important to consider what Junk WordFood you’re feeding yourself. If that diet is causing you to stockpile guns, fear your neighbors, hate your government, call the cops on an athlete in training or lock yourself inside, well. I’d seriously consider the cost to my psyche, my love of country, and my well-being, and shut down the source. And reclaim the happiness that is my birthright.

July 17, 2013

WordFood for the Senate

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , — Julia Hubbel @ 7:18 pm

Yesterday on a drive around the southern Denver beltway I heard a story about a young man who was vilified for winning a college election. It wasn’t that he won, it was how he won. Seems that he rigged it in a rather thrilling spyware kind of way, stole some 750 student passwords, and gave himself about additional 630 votes in an election he had already won. Happily, he was caught, denuded of his title and is now paying the price. Pardon my sarcasm here, but this young man is already well on his way to a fine career in politics.

Later in the day, Majority Leader Harry Reid was crowing, as were several other leaders in the Senate about this big breakthrough that had happened around the stalled Presidential appointments (some for two  years and counting). To shorten what he said but to use his words, “we actually sat down and talked TO each other instead of AT each other.” Today I heard more senators making considerable noise about this supposedly stupendous breakthrough. Imagine. Elected officials gathering in a room to actually listen to one other. Hear what others have to say instead of following their leadership like blind and deaf sheep. Imagine.

The very idea that these elected officials would be speaking of the idea of sequestering themselves away in a private room to learn to speak and actually listen to each other civilly as a huge breakthrough in Congressional history seems to me a very sad statement about the Senate, and about politics in general. But then we all knew that anyway. Yet we will still vote for our guy or gal to go up to the Hill to teach’em a thing or two (read make them come around to OUR way of thinking which of course is Right and True and the American Way). And we get frustrated when shouting at the other side and not listening simply goes nowhere.

Funny. It doesn’t work in our marriages, friendships, at work. Why should it work in Congress? Or for that matter in Egpyt? That’s going well right now, isn’t it?

While the Senate seems to be awakening to the quaint notion that listening graciously is one way to create collaboration and partnerships, this is a great time to think about who we elect. We feed Congress those officials with our votes. The WordFood of courtesy,  respect and regard have been missing of late. The vitriol of hateful election campaigns is a direct result of what they think will work with us, the voting public. If we want them to be more civil, let’s all be more civil, kind, gracious. And vote with our feet. Tweets, emails, letters, about the WordFood example we want.

Perhaps we’ll get a law or two passed. Some we may like, some we may not, but that’s a democracy. A civil, gracious democracy.

Hey, we put ‘em there. And we can bring them back when they act like bullies.

July 7, 2013

WordFood of Integrity: Do What You Say You’re Going to Do

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — Julia Hubbel @ 2:36 pm

Last Friday a simple request sent me on a journey which was both funny and thoughtful. Several days prior I had read, loved, and responded to a Sports Illustrated editorial which had left me in stitches. I sent a complimentary letter to the editor and they had indicated that the magazine might publish my missive. A friend wanted to see the editorial. It was lost in the house somewhere. That led to the search for the issue, which by this time was already being replaced on newsstands everywhere.

From Safeways to Seven Elevens, I was on a mission, because I too wanted this article. I ended up at a Barnes and Noble out at Colorado Mills where I chased Randy down at customer service. Their SIs had already been restocked, but he was willing to call around. Success! Down at Southwest, my issue was still on the counter but the restock guy was coming – perhaps in minutes. I made a perfectly reasonable request- would they hold a copy for me? No. What? No. The best I could hope for was to hurtle down C470 at breakneck speed and hope like hell I’d catch the restock kid in time.

I screeched into the parking lot, shot to the magazine rack and found the young man as he was loading last week’s periodicals. My issue was already at the very bottom, but he happily gave me a copy. Then I went looking for the manager to express my frustration at having to play NASCAR driver to buy this magazine.

Maddy explained that it was store policy not to hold  outdated magazines at the register.  Why? “Because people don’t ever show up and we lose the sale, and then we also can’t return the magazine to the publisher,” she explained. Maddy’s comment got me thinking about this on the larger scale. If it’s a company wide policy, lots of people have done that, lots and lots and lots of times.

Why is it that people will call and ask a store to make a special effort and then not show up, costing the store money? The same reason they let their friends and others down. It’s easy. We can be lazy. It’s hard work to show up for each other. It’s irresponsible. Rude. Reprehensible. For little stores all across America the impact is considerable. It’s the kind of thing that makes entrepreneurs nuts. But it’s so much bigger than that. If you’re willing to mistreat a store owner and not live up to your word, then you are just as likely to break a promise to your child. Your girlfriend. Your boyfriend. Your family. Because in effect, your word means nothing.

Here’s what integrity looks like: My Hewlett Packard printer went on the fritz last week. I called Customer Service, got Carlos. He promised that by the time we were done, it would work just fine. I was out of warranty, but he’d do it for free. It took two hours. I ended up buying a warranty and demanding that he get his boss on the phone with us so that I could sing his praises. He did precisely what he said he would do.  HP has my loyalty.

When you don’t do what you say, you are first out of integrity with yourself. It spreads like a cancer. It does matter. The fabric of our society depends on things like trust, integrity, personal responsibility. Just because your device allows you to hang up at any time doesn’t mean the toxicity on the other end stops at the push of a button. Or the carelessness of not showing up to pick up that magazine doesn’t have an impact. Enough events like that, people go out of business. Fall out of relationships. Stop trusting.

It’s so very easy to be an everyday hero. Just show up. Live up to your promises. Don’t let folks down. Whether it’s your loved ones or the little store down the street that struggling to keep its doors open. Heroes keep their promises. Go watch “Last of the Mohicans” again for a first class Hollywood reminder of what a promise looks like. Keep your word, you will look up to yourself again.

At one point in American history, our word was our bond. Now we have lawyers. Really? Is that what it takes these days? When I signed up as a soldier, I promised to give my life for my country. THAT was a serious promise. Still would. What does your word stand for? Let’s keep our commitments. Little ones, big ones. Let our word stand for something again.

June 29, 2013

A Wake of WordFood

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , — Julia Hubbel @ 8:02 pm

It was a typical summer mountain afternoon. The skies were full of clouds with darkening bellies, which erupted into periodic showers. As we gathered under the roof at the Estes Park picnic spot to celebrate my brother’s life, the beautiful mountains that he loved surrounded us,  and a swift stream ran nearby.

My big brother took his life last October. Today his friends, some new, many old, gathered to share tales. There were films and slideshows from his long climbing career, copies of his many climbing books. I brought photos of him as a youngster, pictures of his son as a baby, of Peter and me as kids.

There is nothing like a wake to wake you up to a family member.

Peter and I were estranged over stupid things: a combination of money and silence. We had disagreements over dollars as many families do.  I respected my brother’s need for privacy, and so didn’t seek him out. The last time I saw him alive was an amicable lunch nine years ago. I have no idea what changed in the interim to cause his feelings to change towards me, but what I learned today was an object lesson in the one dimensional nature of the familial lens.

As new friends like Brent and Bear, and old friends like CT and his now grown up daughter stood to tell their tales about my brother, an entirely different person than “my” Peter began to emerge. I had experienced my brother’s failed nurse training, not those whose lives he had saved because of that same training. I had heard about my brother’s inability to stay employed, not the extraordinary work he accomplished with those who stood and talked about his talented craftsmanship. I knew he was a great writer, but I had no idea how he he had touched people with his poetry.

I shared funny stories about Peter’s childhood, something many of these folks knew little to nothing about. They in turn fed me the smorgasbord of tall tales, rich history and background that only friends could provide. What was achingly clear, and a sad lesson in how much I had missed of my brother’s life, was how varied his gifts had been, and more importantly, his indelible impact on a great many people across many disciplines.

This left me deeply enriched, but also thoughtful about how easy it is to put a loved one in a box, and then put a permanent label on that box. “Yeah, Brad’s the black sheep of the family,” you say. True enough twenty years ago, but what if Brad found his way, is leading a wholly different life now, and you’re still boxing Brad in based on a familial experience? Brad has no permission to evolve. You can’t evolve either.

In some elemental ways, Peter had not changed one bit. But his friends’ stories, their love for my big brother and the great ache they felt at his choice to leave early were transforming. One line that Bear shared with us that brought the house down was, “Goddammit, Pete!” We’d all said it at one time or another, out of frustration, or love, or amusement. When Brent and Bear got the news of Peter’s passing, that was their instantaneous reaction. Classic.

As I bask in the emotion of the day, my gratitude for new friends is considerable. But more so I am grateful for the extraordinary lesson in how easy it is to think we know who someone is. I hardly knew my big brother.  Each of us today brought a different piece of him to light, and we all basked in the laughter and tears. How much more would I have shared of his story had I reached across the silence and dealt with that frustratingly stubborn man? I will never know. But I do know that it would have been well worth the try.

June 16, 2013

The Power of SelfTalk

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , — Julia Hubbel @ 8:05 am

Most of us have read or heard about how powerful self talk is. How the voices in our head can affect our performance, our attitude, the quality of our daily life. Yet so often it may not be obvious how these voices are having an effect until something signficant changes, and we can see those effects first hand. This happened to me just this past week when I decided to take on a challenge.

About two years ago, I suffered a knee injury while working with a trainer doing cross fit. It was a pretty significant one, and it ultimately led to surgery last June. While I’ve since rehabbed, I continue to live with the occasional sharp stabbing pain in my left knee, especially on uneven surfaces, such as on the side of a mountain. As a result, I’ve gotten in the habit of telling people that I can’t hike. In the meantime, I do pretty much everything else from cycle to scuba to train on Red Rocks.

Last week I mentioned to a good friend that I was spending a month in Tanzania in November. He said quite bluntly that I simply HAD to climb Kilimanjaro because in twenty years, the snows would be gone. I started the litany about my knee and he cut me off. “Just do it,” he said, “You’ll never forgive yourself for being that close and not giving it a shot.”

The next morning I called my tour operator and booked the Rongai Route, the easiest of approaches.

What has happened since then has been nothing short of remarkable.

The conversation of “oh my knee” in my head has stopped. I joined the Colorado Mountain club that same day and am starting to book training hikes. I increased the intensity of my workouts at Red Rocks. Yes my knee might be annoyed or sore, but I am going up that mountain and I am reaching the summit, come hell or high water. And because of that decision, my hiking days are back.

This past weekend I went back into my basement with glee and dug through gear bags and pulled out all my camping gear, including mitts and gloves that were perfect for Mt Kili. I forgot I had them. Suddenly standing at Uhuru Peak is almost imminent. It’s not just an idea, it’s doable.

My friend’s push to make the decision changed the self-talk literally overnight. Having made the decision to climb Kili changed the conversation in my head. Will I need trekking poles? Yep. Will my knee yell at me? Probably. But the limiting self talk about how my knee means I can’t hike any more is over and done.

Right after I signed up for Kili I wrote my friend, who works in Abu Dhabi, and thanked him. He said, “Any time.”

I am lucky to have that man in my life. May you have people like that in yours who challenge your self limiting language.

You may not want to take on Kilimanjaro, but you may be too scared to go after that big job opportunity. Or ask that pretty girl out. Or learn how to ride horses. Or take scuba lessons. Or go back to college for your master’s degree. I’m telling you right now YES YOU CAN. There are people in wheelchairs who have to use a breath tube who are writing novels. Folks, if they are doing that, then you can, with all your faculties, get past your limiting self talk and take on the world. Get out there and find your Mt. Kilimanjaro and do it.

June 13, 2013

Don’t Wait until It’s Too Late

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , — Julia Hubbel @ 10:57 am

Down in Florida is a lovely woman, my cousin, who allows me to write my books at her kitchen table. At the end of the day when she comes home from work, we head out for dinner. After a margarita, or a special chocolate martini, my cuz will regale me with tales that often end up in my books. One of them comes to mind.

This wonderful woman, we’ll call her Ellen, had a second husband, whom we’ll call Danny. They had a volatile relationship, largely because of Danny’s son from a previous marriage. This son was a pathological liar and a sociopath. Danny couldn’t see this, and the child pit the two against each other. Danny was also under considerable stress on his job.

For ten years, despite the great love they had for each other, this relationship was marred by toxic WordFood and hurtful battles that left them exhausted. Ellen found herself so emotionally damaged that she would curl up into a fetal position on the couch. At one point she demanded, and got, a separation. Danny went mad with grief and went overboard with flowers and gifts. For a while Ellen recuperated, even had an affair.

After some time away, Ellen realized that she really loved Danny, and wanted to try again. So they reconciled.

One month later Danny was diagnosed with terminal cancer. This news was devastating to the newly reunited couple. Suddenly they found the WordFood of love that had been missing for the previous eleven years of their marriage. In the final months of their time together, they were able to spend the kind of loving hours Ellen had dreamed of spending with Danny.

Why had it taken cancer and imminent loss to free these two loving people to find the kindness and care that had always existed? Are you trapped in a cycle of blame for what isn’t right in your life? So often, only a disaster can force determined people to see what they are about to lose, and the damage that being right causes in relationship.

Ellen is still sad that she wasn’t able to share more quality years with Danny. But her very true story serves as a reminder that now is the best time for gentility, courtesy, kindness, regard, and for expressing the love we feel for the ones we have married, given birth to, or call our significant other. For we aren’t guaranteed tomorrow. We have now. And it’s time to call them and use the WordFood of love to brighten their day.

June 3, 2013

Cultural WordFood

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , — Julia Hubbel @ 12:16 pm

This May was an immersion in Argentinean culture, and while most relate Argentina to great beef, Mendozan wine and the tango, my focus was on the traditional gaucho experience. In my backpack were a brand new pair of tall riding boots, a riding helmet and all the paraphernalia for as many rides as possible, especially in the high country around Bariloche and Mendoza.

In a country where mostly men are the riders and girls are not as encouraged to become horse experts, tourists are taken on group rides that are mostly walking tours on very docile horses. Great, unless you’re a serious rider, which I am. So the trip was a series of often funny moments when there was a bit of a translation between “soy experiencia”- which gauchos often heard and frankly didn’t believe, and then actually seeing you ride, which often meant you scored a better horse.  These guys have seen it all- the fat tourist whose last ride was for five cents on a circus pony being led around a circle and he’s saying he can ride, and he falls off at the trot. You can’t blame them for taking “experience” with a jaundiced ear.

So one gaucho I hired for a two-day solo excursion over a high mountain pass did what I wish they’d all do. Five minutes into our ride, we hit an open patch and before I knew it he was off like a bat out of hell. So was I, right on his heels. At the quarter mile he slid to stop, then turned to watch me handle the stop at a dead run. What I got was a head nod, and a curt “bueno,” which was exceedingly high praise from this man, and I count it as a high point on the trip. From then on, he was gracious, helpful, trained me on tack and saddlery and all aspects of my horse. And I respected him for testing me.

On my final stop, an estancia on the outskirts of Buenos Aires, a lovely family hosted me for nearly five days. Their young daughter Ro rode with me, and at the end of the first day I asked to switch horses with her, not knowing what I was requesting. She hesitated, then agreed. I’d been invited to help herd the horses from the far pastures into the other far pastures. Once I passed through the final gate and gave my animal its head, the next thing I knew my helmet was nearly blown off and I was gripping this plunging creature with all my strength, grinning like a banshee, as we ran flat out for the far stragglers. As they wheeled, we shot right, moving the herd towards the gate.

In an instant, the work was done and all the animals were where they were supposed to be. Delighted, I asked permission to ride this horse for the rest of my time. Ro nodded. The next four days, this smart, agile, lightning fast animal was saddled and ready to go every day, up to almost moments before my ride to the airport.

What I had not known, and found out on my last day, was that this magnificent creature had belonged to the long standing gaucho Don Juan, who had died just the year before. Don Juan was much loved, much revered and respected. His horse was part of the family and the only tie they had to his memory. And he was not available for tourists. For this family to have allowed me to sit on him, much less ride and work him for four days, was a gift of the highest order. Argentina respects history, its traditions and its gaucho ways of riding. Ro apparently had made a case for me and the family had agreed. I had been riding gaucho history, and it moved me to tears.

My Spanish still needs work, but between my pidgin Spanish and their pidgin English we patched together this wonderful story, and it became the single greatest moment for me in Argentina. Their kind words and trust, their gift, reminds me of the generosity of spirit that exists everywhere. Behind all things there is a story, and we cannot take what we experience for granted. Sometimes we don’t always understand what we are being given, and it serves to find out, especially when in another country. And when we do, it might just bring us to our knees- like when a very poor family gives you its only bed, or last bowl of food, out of courtesy. Often cultural WoodFood isn’t spoken outright, but it is there.

April 29, 2013

WordFood in Feedback

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , — Julia Hubbel @ 8:38 am

Whether you’re a boss or a parent, a friend or a lover, a client or a customer, at some time you’re going to have an opportunity to provide feedback. How you do it is a reflection on who you are, and the way you hold yourself in the world. It’s also a reflection of how you treat yourself. This was brought home the other day when I had the chance to provide feedback to a caregiver.

After decades of bodybuilding and a certain amount of abuse, I’d finally starting taking care of myself by going to the Denver Integrative Massage folks on Galapagos. They offer 90 minute massages for the paltry sum of $35 dollars, and you have students of varying skill levels work on you. Last week, instead of my regular therapist, I got a first timer- and I was his first massage ever.

Although I spent some time explaining where I needed  him to work- the injury areas and problems where there was a back sprain or pain, he started on one leg and spent nearly forty minutes ministering to just that leg. Then as though he suddenly realized what he’d done, the other leg got a little attention and he hurried to catch up. By the time he got to the problem areas he’d run out of time. He was hesitant, and overly sensitive to any indication that I was experiencing pain. His rhythm was way off which was disconcerting, he often stopped completely which left me wondering where he’d gone. In all, it was an awkward experience, and I didn’t end up feeling either relaxed or relieved.

We are given sheets of feedback and I wrote “let’s talk” on mine, and sat down with him on our mat. He was a little anxious. My challenge was to find a way to put myself in his position, and not operate from where I was feeling about the massage. What transpired was a wonderful conversation about the experience. I shared with him what was going on inside me, what I sensed about his emotions, and what I might suggest. By beginning with telling him that I tried to imagine what it might be like to be doing my very first massage with a client, how hard I’d be trying to do everything right, how hypersensitive I might be to every cue, we connected.

The exchange allowed us to explore the session and have a learning experience together without his feeling defensive. What he reminded me was the importance of placing myself in his shoes, and how vulnerable he would be feeling to potential criticism. How important positive feedback would be for his first time around. It was humbling to remember how a few words can lacerate, or leave someone uplifted and encouraged.

In exchanges such as these, I’m the one doing the learning. The burden is on me to wield words in such a way that whatever my petty ego wants is set aside, and others’ needs are taken into account first.

Whether you’re a parent or a partner, feedback is an opportunity to uplift everyone involved. If you can enter the exchange humbly and with a willingness to be taught, it becomes something almost holy.

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