I caught up with a friend I’ve not seen or heard from in twenty years. We met at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah in 1987 and struck up a friendship almost immediately. He taught me that a tie should drop just below the beltline if tied properly. He also accused me of calling ticky-tack fouls in basketball which I deny to this day. I think he was jealous I received more mail.

We spoke for 90 minutes about our jobs, family and friends. Twenty years disappeared, and I felt like I was back at the MTC shooting the breeze with him over handfuls of Cap’N Crunch Berries.

I also spoke with my father on the phone this weekend. He told me about his new iPad, and I gave him some tips on getting it setup with Gmail along with a handful of my favorite apps. Within five minutes we’d caught up, said goodbyes and promised to chat that night on Messenger.

Then tonight, two friends stopped by to help me install a new starter in the Maxima. One helped me remove the old starter, and another helped me install the new one. Both worked in the rain.

This is just the beginning. I could mention the friend who shares music, Diet Cokes and books with me or the friend who took care of the outstanding balance on a dental bill when he heard I’d lost my job. And I can’t forget the one who drops off BBQ and cinnamon rolls on Sunday nights just after the kids head to bed so I don’t have to share.

I realize the times of my life where I’ve been happiest are when I’ve had close friendships, not just a lot of acquaintances. It takes work, and it’s not something I’ve done well for stretches at a time.

But about a year ago I decided to focus on the few close friends I had instead of worry about about those who are happy with how things are. I started with my father, and have slowly branched out from there.

My life today is rich. Rich with friends.

When I was serving a mission in Germany I looked forward to each Monday because that was our preparation day. We did our laundry and grocery shopping in the morning and wrote letters to family in the afternoon.

But what I looked forward to the most was being able to play basketball, go jogging or play indoor soccer. Given the many miles I rode my bike around town, I was in some of the best shape of my life and I couldn’t wait to shed my Mr. Mac suit for shorts and Nikes.

About six months into service, our mission president banned all forms of physical exercise because a fellow missionary was injured while jogging. We were only allowed to participate in activities that we could perform while wearing a suit and tie. That sounds as absurd today as it did twenty years ago.

With nearly 200 missionaries serving in our mission, the occasional injury is bound to happen. I couldn’t understand why the fluke injury of one person should result in a ban for the remaining 199 of us.

I’ve experienced similar misguided blanket polices since then. I once worked for a manager who, instead of dealing with the rare employee mistake, would create pages and pages of policy foolishly assuming he was repairing the problem. Each time a new policy was added to the employee manual, everyone at the company received an email that began with “TEAM” in large red fonts. We quickly learned to ignore these emails because they were written in such condescending language.

I’m reminded of a quote from Mark Twain: “There were more exceptions to the rule than instances of it.”

Attempting to alter behavior by creating new policies is the work of a lazy manager. It’s not difficult to sit at a desk and craft a policy that makes you feel important. You create while others follow.

But it’s never that simple because for each new policy or procedure you create you’re quietly telling your employees, “I trust you less than I did before.”  Not to mention, you anger the larger group of employees who followed the guidelines to begin with.

Instead of creating a new policy, ask yourself if the problem is best solved by discussing it directly with the employee who brought it to your attention. I’ve often found through those conversations that my understanding of a rule or guideline did not mesh with that of the employee. That’s not always a bad thing because it gives me an opportunity to listen and share my views.

If you absolutely must create or change a policy, try delivering the changes in person instead of email. It’s more difficult because it opens up a two-way dialog where others can provide input and ask questions. But it’s more personable and effective. Plus, if you’ve reached the point of your career where you’re managing by email, maybe it’s time to ride off into the sunset on your horse.

With most of the school supply shopping out of the way, Luca sat next to me at the computer as we searched for something to carry all those supplies. We reminisced about the pink Nike backpack I bought her for Kindergarten. In the subsequent years, the kids have carried their homework to school in bags I collected by attending various technical trade shows.

Luca has outgrown the color pink. That’s what happens when one has a little tomboy in them and leaves Kindergarten and Dora the Explorer behind.

Our chat lead to Luca asking me about what I used to carry to school. I went to garage and pulled out a number of bags I’ve used over the years.  Here are three of my favorites:

The black bag in front is the one I currently carry to work each day and have owned for three years. It has the most features, is the best-made, and most conservative bag I’ve carried. It’s also expensive by my standards. But the last bag of similar quality lasted me for 10 years so I feel like it’s a good investment. It has several compartments, my favorite of which holds my sunglasses case. The handles and shoulder strap are covered in high quality leather and the fabric is made of ballistic nylon which means it’s nearly impossible to rip or scratch. It’s made by Tumi and I expect it will last for many years.

The green and beige messenger bag is made by Timbuk2 which is a little San Francisco shop that’s famous for making some of the best bike messenger bags you can buy. I bought this bag in 2000 when I worked in downtown Seattle and rode a Xootr kick scooter around the city. I needed a bag that fit over my shoulder that I could fasten to my waist. And since this is Seattle, it had to be waterproof. My favorite features of the bag are the two Velcro fasteners (not seen in picture) that secure the large flap without having to secure the straps. The bag is very well-made but not ideal for carrying around anything heavier than a book or two and and iPod. I paid about $65 for the bag and it still looks brand new after ten years.

The last bag is my leather messenger bag I purchased in Germany in 1987. It has the fewest features of any bag I’ve owned. It also requires a lot of maintenance. Over the years, I’ve rubbed many containers of mink oil into the thick leather which keeps it soft and waterproof. I’ve had to take it to a number of shoe repair shops to have a seam or two stitched up. When I carried it around the University of Utah campus, my friends called it the ‘man-purse’.

My kids were not sure what to make of it when I showed them how I wore it around my neck and over one shoulder. I told them how I carried this bag from door to door as a missionary. It was just large enough to hold four Books of Mormon, my wallet and Geistliche Ausweis (license to preach).

This bag is one of my most priceless possessions. I had it with me during some of the darkest times of my life, but also during some of the most joyful. It’s full of personality. Like the large scratch across the back that came when I removed it just in time to swing and stun a dog that had been chasing me down the block. I carried letters from my parents and grandparents in the front pocket. It wasn’t uncommon for me to read those letters while taking the train from one city to the next, and they provided a much needed boost when I needed it.

I was surprised to see my kids demeanor change. They were no longer making fun of this strange looking and well-worn leather bag. I retrieved a rag and mink oil from my drawer and began rubbing the oil into the bag  just as I did 23 years ago.

I remember wanting it for my birthday, but having to wait a few weeks later for Christmas when my parents and grandfather would send extra money. I got to know the local shop owner well because I checked often to make sure the bag was still in stock while I saved for it. On the day the check from my father arrived, I rushed to the bank to exchange it into German Marks, but the dollar had weakened due to Black Monday. I went by the shop to ask the owner if he’d hold the bag for a few more weeks. I believe I had about 100 Marks and the bag was priced at 140 or about $80.

At the time, I carried a backpack I’d used during my first year of college. It was in decent shape, but I wanted something I could fling over my shoulder. I found wearing a backpack over a suit jacket was an awkward mix. I also wanted to integrate myself into the German culture a little more,  and wearing a bright blue American-made nylon backpack wasn’t helping with that.

The shop owner began asking me questions. My German was poor and my companion had to translate most of our conversation. I explained that I was sent to Germany to teach about Christ, and find opportunities to give service. He took the bag off the shelf and handed it to me. I began to explain that I would give him 50 Marks to hold the bag until I was able to come up with the remainder. He took the 50 Marks and said something to my companion.  As we walked out of the store, he explained the store owner had sold the bag to me at his cost.

“Sometimes you have to play the game”

My father would utter the phrase when he sensed I was pushing up against the rules, be they ones created for our baseball team or those enforced at home.

I knew what he meant, although I didn’t want to admit it at the time.

Go with the flow.

Don’t fight the inevitable.

The process is bigger than the individual.

Remember the scene in Office Space when Joanna is criticized for wearing the minimum fifteen items of flair while her annoying enthusiastic coworker, Brian, wore 37 pieces?  Brian knew how to play the game while Joanna didn’t feel comfortable doing so.

Yes, I got the message loud and clear. Sometimes it was easier to play the game than fight the system.  That’s how it worked. That’s what I was supposed to accept. I felt like 15 pieces of flair were enough and didn’t want to add another 22.

I can hear my father’s voice when I run into a process I don’t understand: just play the game.

Lately, I’ve found myself unwilling to play the game because it feels fake. What makes it difficult is when many people around you are professional players. They know the game inside and out and expect you to go along with them. But this never leads to happiness.

Like the time I went through the gauntlet of interviews at the University of Utah only to find out few of the companies were hiring. Somehow that process was supposed to be valuable to us down the road, but I wasn’t aware the joke was on me from the start.

At what point in life does one stop playing the game?

I am playing it less than I used to, and my soul feels better for it. As I get older, I find it’s often easier to let others play the game and coast in their wake doing my own thing. Let them work the front lines while I sit back and observe.

Game over.

I dislike large groups. “The more the merrier” doesn’t ring true.

It’s not that I don’t like the people in large group. Many can be close friends or relatives.  But I don’t care for the social dynamics and structure that large groups dictate. Large groups are made up of smaller groups, and I nearly always find myself on the outside looking in at these smaller groups of people ripping Obama or health care reform or Facebook or whatever. Since I find it difficult to keep my mouth shut, it’s best I avoid them and head to an area with better 3G service.

I’m not referring to large conferences with hundreds or thousands of people. It’s easy to remain anonymous in that size group. Those don’t bother me.

I’m talking about the company Christmas party, family reunion or church banquet. I know it sounds odd because those occasions are meant to bring people together. But I can’t stand them.

I find these situations incredibly awkward. I’d avoid them altogether, but that’s impossible with young children. I don’t want to deprive them of the opportunity to meet family or make new friends just because I’d rather be organizing my sock drawer.

Kim and I seldom argue. But when we do it’s usually been over my desire to skip a family or church gathering.  If I’m unable to make up an excuse fast enough, I’ll attend and pull out my iPhone or wander the building looking for a janitor listening to sports on his radio.

My mother-in-law and my father love getting large groups of people together. Nothing makes them happier than to gather the family together for an activity that ends with a group photo. I have to remind myself that these gatherings make them happy, and my kids enjoy attending them.

A couple years ago, my father took over 30 people in our family to Disneyland. It was our kids first time to the park, and they had a blast. But we spent very little time with other members of my family. It was if we’d gone on our own which was fine with me, but I feel my kids missed a rare opportunity to spend time with their cousins. Living in Seattle while everyone else lives in Utah creates an unintended barrier between us.

As awkward as I feel in large groups, I’m good one on one. I love nothing more than getting together with a friend and talking for two hours over dinner. I’m looking forward to doing just that tonight with a close friend I haven’t seen in a few months.

Last week, my brother-in-law from St. George and I got talking after the fireworks on the 4th and didn’t stop until 5 am. It was a lot of fun to get to know him better. We have more in common that I imagined.  Had he not broken off from the group and found me downstairs with my laptop, I would have missed out.

So if you run into me at the next Christmas party, family reunion or church activity, say hello. Just don’t bring your entourage. 

I never know if I should grab the short leash or the fancy retractable one. The short leash was the first to be found tonight, and I attached it to Elka’s collar and headed down the street for a short walk.

Our neighborhood is a maze of cul-de-sacs surrounded by large trees. Most homes were built in the late 70’s although many have been renovated to look new. Sidewalks will appear for a stretch and then disappear. It’s not uncommon to see children playing soccer in the streets.

Elka and I continued a few more blocks until we come to section marked by an elderly care facility. But it’s not just one large building. It feels like an upscale neighborhood with modern homes and apartments scattered around a lush wooded area. The streets are lined with retro lights, and not a blade of grass is out of place. It’s immaculately maintained.

Elka tugged at the leash when she heard the deep croaking coming from the bullfrogs. We kept moving as to not become an easy target for the mosquitoes.

I decided to loop around the block one more time.

I’m amazed at the care these people put into their homes. We passed one man watering a cart full of flowers he’d placed near the street for passersby to enjoy. Another woman was hanging a new bird feeder just outside her porch.

As we neared the cross street that would take us home, I noticed an elderly woman standing on her lawn. She held her right hand over her eyes to reduce the glare while using her other hand to grasp her walker.

I turned to catch the sky ablaze in color as it was about to disappear for the day. It looked as though the sky was covered in bright orange creamsicles.

“Good evening”, I said to the woman who was now moving towards us. She asked to pet Elka. I told her that was fine. Elka loves the attention. Her stubby tail wiggled back and forth in a fashion that still makes me laugh. 

Before we parted ways, we looked towards the sky one last time as the sun dropped below the horizon.

We stood there in silence. The colors disappeared. The clouds began to move in.

“I come out here each evening to watch the sunset. Because you never know when it might be your last”.

With that, she grabbed her walker with both hands and headed towards the porch at a pace that won’t make it easy for even the fleetest of mosquitoes.

Consider for a moment the talents you possess.

You may be skilled at playing the piano. Maybe you’re a talented dancer. My father excelled at working with teens. My father-in-law knows more about computers than anyone I know. Both of them made careers doing work they enjoyed and were talented at.

How much time each day do you spend practicing your most valuable talents?

I’ve been watching the World Cup over the past few weeks. Soccer is not a sport I follow on a regular basis, and I’ve enjoyed listening to the back stories of the players. Teams like England, Brazil, Spain and Argentina are filled with some of the best athletes in the world.

There’s no doubt players like Messi, Ronaldo, and Kaka were born with athletic talent. But each of them spent their youth living and breathing soccer. When they weren’t eating or sleeping they were out in the streets or fields kicking the ball around. They’ve spent the majority of their lives perfecting their talents through many hours of practice.

I recently read a book by Stephen King called On Writing. One theme that came through loud and clear was how much work he put in before he become successful. Many people have asked for his advice on becoming a successful writer. As if all one must do is swallow a magic pill. His reply is blunt:

Read and write four to six hours a day. If you cannot find the time for that, you can’t expect to become a good writer.

Bill Simmons is a writer for ESPN. He is my favorite writer, and the one who has influenced me the most. On one of his podcasts he mentioned how much his writing suffers if he doesn’t put in at least four to six hours a day. And this from a guy who has written thousands of columns and several books. Try reading this piece he wrote about his dog without shedding a tear.

I’m reminded of a book I read last year from Malcolm Gladwell called  Outliers. Gladwell posits the “10,000 Hour Rule” which suggests success is based less on talent but more in putting in the hours, specially 10,000 of them. That’s 20 hours a week for 10 years.

He cites a number of examples including the Beatles who perfected their craft by playing hundreds of shows in Germany before hitting it big in the states. Or the many hours Bill Gates spent programming on an ASR-33 Teletype as a young boy.

Both the Beatles and Gates were talented. But all those hours of practice along with excellent timing allowed them to rise to the top in their fields.

I certainly haven’t spent even close to 10,000 hours writing. I’m still working to get to 20 hours a week. I’m currently at half that but moving in the right direction.

I wish I’d started earlier.

Raindrops skipped across the window of the bus as I stared out. Each pothole the bus encountered scattered each droplet allowing me to see a little further. Until they begin to come back. Usually about a dozen at a time.

Normally, I enter through the front door of the bus each morning with my white headphones hanging from my ears. This allows me to block out morning people who are ready to share their cheer with me. I’m not ready for cheer before 9 am. I just want to be left alone in my own world.

But today I left my iPhone in my bag.

I decided to sit near the back of the bus and take in the scenery hoping nobody would sit next to me. With the rain comes a blanket of peacefulness. Maybe it’s the steam rising from the streets. I noticed many elderly couples walking hand in hand. Rain doesn’t slow us down here in Seattle no matter our age.

I noticed characteristics of the area I don’t normally see when I drive myself to work. Like the woman preparing her used bookstore for the day by dusting the blinds. Or the barber putting out a sidewalk sign. The city is just beginning to awaken as the bus traverses through a number of small towns on the way to the Microsoft campus.

55 minutes later the bus comes to a stop and I jump off. A half mile away is my office. I could take a shuttle, but that’s boring. What should take me five minutes takes double that on account of the four stubborn traffic lights that favor cars over pedestrians.

But I’m not in a hurry. The rain has packed up and taken residence over another town, and I’m enjoying the cool air on my face.

I hope this doesn’t mean I’m becoming a morning person.