If I had a penny for every time a client has said, "We have global offices, but we aren't a truly global company," I could pay for a first-class trip around the world staying at the finest luxury hotels. It finally hit me this week that asking how to become a truly global company is the wrong question.
At a friend's 60th birthday party, I was introduced to his 13-year-old. "What do you like to do?" I inquired. "Well, I play soccer, but my favorite sport is rock climbing," he replied. This kid lives in Brooklyn, New York, and the last time I was there, I didn't see any outdoor rock formations. Yet a Google search turns up a number of cool indoor courses. It turns out that many schools offer competitive climbing as a letter sport. Kids like my new friend compete both as individuals and as a team.
My friends and colleagues know I am over the moon about the book I recommend to everyone called Younger Next Year, an amazing guide to turning back the physiological clock and having more energy, vitality and good health than you've had in years. The big "aha" is cardio exercise, unfailingly, 6 days a week, where you get your heart rate up and sweat. It's amazing, really. I've been doing it for months. This stuff works.
A World Series win, even for a team that seems to have destiny and momentum on its side, is a remarkable thing. To be the greatest team in baseball you have to have more than talent, as teams have proven again and again. The moon and stars must align. Athletes recruited to the effort must gel and build the right alchemy; they must together navigate the ups and downs of a season with grit and fortitude; they must unite to fend off the mercurial support of fans with a carefree lightness, and teach each other and themselves to believe.
I don’t know if you’ve ever had the experience of witnessing the “last of the generation" in your family pass on. Of course it is a sad day. Everybody recalling the good times, and the not-so-good. When you walk into the room, and see all the folks – family and friends, there’s this magical moment when everybody realizes that what you’re really there to do is celebrate a life.
It can happen more quickly than you think. One minute you’re enjoying a lovely hike through the woods, and next thing you know, you seem to be off the trail and clueless. This is what happened to me last week when I happened upon the trail sign: Frog Pond.
The other day I took a taxi from Pittsburgh International Airport to a meeting downtown. I had an important meeting, and my assistant, Rachel, wanted to be sure I got there on time, so she pre-arranged ride through “Richie’s Cab Service.” As I walked through the terminal, I dialed and Richie himself answered. He’d be there in ten seconds. And he was. I’m not kidding. Within 20 minutes, I arrived at the Omni Penn Hotel. The only rub, I thought, would be payment. A sign was taped to the credit card machine – out of service. “Do you take credit cards?,” I asked. “Oh, sure!” he responded as he whipped out his mobile phone equipped with the new Square device. He deftly took the card, swiped it and handed it back. “Email receipt?” he asked. “Absolutely!” I responded.
I took up yoga this year. One of the shocks in the first couple of months of classes was how bad I was at holding a steady balanced position. At the point in each class when we were instructed to lift one leg off the ground, I found myself wobbling, quivering, and often tipping over. In my peripheral vision, I saw the "real yoga people" standing peacefully and effortlessly on one foot, arms spanning out like birds in flight, sporting blissful countenances. As much as the instructors advise you in your practice not to judge yourself harshly, or compare yourself to others, the ego takes a hit when your foot hits the ground.
Fast forward about 18 years from the above photo, and imagine my puzzled expression upon the announcement my grandfather made at my high school graduation dinner. After losing his second wife to a hip fracture and an unsuccessful six months convalescing, he was now free, on his way to california to visit his college sweetheart. Esther, a concert pianist and music teacher in residence at Ann Arbor, Michigan, had retired, moved, and invited him to come out. She had spent a lifetime without the love of her life. In the parlance of the age, Esther was a spinster.
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