Community is Messy

Two heavyweights were getting ready to slug it out. This was what they were built for, what they spent their lives working toward, and what would ensure quite the payday. Years of training, of early mornings, of strict diets, of sacrifice - it all came down to the weekend’s main event.

One boxer was strategic. He planned his moves and punches like a trained choreographer. He had answers for his opponent and knew when to be aggressive.

The other boxer relied on brute force and instinct. He used his genetic gifts of fitness and strength to overwhelm and overpower opponents. He didn’t rely on plans. And why? When asked, he said:

“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.”

The year was 1996 and in that interview Mike Tyson authored one of the most famous boxing quotes of all time. And while it packed some truth, Evander Holyfield packed a punch (several of them) and won by TKO in the 11th round. The rematch a year later also went Holyfield’s way when Tyson bit his ear and was disqualified.

Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face. And every community is perfect until other people join you.

How to be perfect

I used to be the perfect parent. My kid never cried, always ate her vegetables, and studied hard. I was recognized by several national press outlets as a model father. This was way back in 2009, before my daughter was born.

Ditto for my marriage. It was perfect until I said “I do.” And my business was perfect until we opened the doors. My baseball team was perfect up until Opening Day.

Sneakers stay unscuffed if you leave them in your closet, your boat stays calm in the harbor, and your car runs perfectly if you leave it in the garage. But closets, harbors and garages aren’t where these things are designed to be. If you want to feel the wind on your face you’ve got to leave the shoreline. And if you want deep meaning, you’ve got to get messy with a community.

God bless flight delays

Last Friday I did something I hadn’t done in over 15 months: I spoke in person at an event. Travel there was one of commuter nightmares but my god if I didn’t relish the inconvenience.

I took the last flight up Thursday night, from Nashville to Milwaukee. The plan was to land late, grab my rental car, get halfway to Madison, crash for the night, wake up, drive, go speak, give high fives, and come home. Very quickly, however, I laid those plans at the altar of the travel gods who quickly laughed at them, lit them on fire, and chuckled heartily, asking if I ever wanted to leave home again.

The flight was delayed (twice), putting me into Wisconsin past midnight. That meant the rental car folks had left for the evening, so there was no way to get my car that night. My original hotel reservation was 30 miles away, not worth a late rideshare there at 1AM and back at 5AM to get my rental. So, I called the closest hotel I could find nearby and hopped a cab.

I arrived, checked in, and finally climbed into bed close to 2AM, setting my alarm to wake me up in about three hours so I could shower and catch the shuttle back to the airport hoping I’d still have a car. In the back of my head I was also planning for the worst: hoping there was a willing Uber driver wanting to drive me 75 miles to Madison, wait for me to speak, and return me to the airport. Luckily the contingency plan wasn’t needed.

I procured my car, drove to the event, shook hands with lovely people, shared my thoughts on leading through uncertainty, returned to my hotel for a nap, and made it back home Friday night. I went through the mess to find the meaning.

Omelettes come from broken eggs; memories come from broken plans.

Bring on the omelettes

Speaking of breakfast foods, I’d dare say last weekend was my best Father’s Day yet. All four of us went to brunch at a local spot. We ate outdoors in perfect weather.

That afternoon my daughter and I made it 12 years in a row of going to Starbucks on Father’s Day. It’s the one tradition that has stayed consistent in what has been a fairly inconsistent life for me. We’ve made that ritual happen every third Sunday in June since 2010, sometimes going late at night once I landed back home.

It’s not always easy, but it’s always worth it. (Easy and meaningful are opposites, you know.)

Later that night I made nachos, a regular Sunday evening routine for me and my wife. Afterward, the kitchen is usually a mess with crumbs and the assorted detritus I leave when chopping, mixing, and delicately decorating my chip masterpiece.

But it’s this mess that makes it delicious. I know it is. I could order in, having nachos brought to us and clean up would be a breeze as we simply closed the take out containers and dumped them in the trash. In fact, every meal could be like this - we could order every breakfast, lunch and dinner in a sack and never dirty a dish or utensil of our own.

But gone would be the conversations during meal prep. The discipline of table setting. The satisfaction from a clean kitchen that somehow shines brighter when your belly is full after a meal you sweat over. Cleanliness isn’t the goal; community is. And community is f*cking messy.

Hell is other people

In his play No Exit, Jean-Paul Sartre gave us the famous line “Hell is other people.” A lot of people on the Internet have spent time trying to unpack the line, but let’s face it: it’s true. My trip last week was full of other people: crowded planes, rental car staff that went home when I needed them there, drunk folks without masks - you know the drill.

But there were other other people, too. The kind Lyft driver who got out of his car to find me at the airport (I was in the wrong place), the desk clerk on the night shift, the early morning shuttle driver, the event host, and so many more who allowed me the chance to turn a crappy night into an awesome morning. Hell may be other people, but heaven is what happens when we dare to connect with them.

It seems, then, that the only way to find real community is to break a few eggs. We’ve got to drop our fragile egos so that we might crack a little to let the light in (and our light out). We’ve got to get to our own breaking point so that other people can help us heal. We’ve got to stop keeping up a perfect facade (how exhausting) and let others see our mess.

And when we do - when we’re ready to show up as we are, messy humanity and all - that’s when real community can start.

Want to make an omelette? Break a few eggs. Want to make a community? Break a few egos.

Especially your own.