The tail end of the process….comes at the end…how do you want your team to feel…at the tail end of the day, the week, the quarter, the year? Can you identify how you’d want them to describe you as a leader; their relationship with the team; with their work and, ideally with the organization (granted you can’t solve that completely)…how can your microclimate create this? what’s within your control?
i always thought pin the tail on the donkey was a stupid game. blindfold a kid, spin ’em around, then let ’em loose charging forward with a sharp object. now velcro the tail on the donkey? that I could work with
In the subway, shoulder to shoulder, vibrant stories abound. We chase our own beginnings, middles, and endings, in a relentless quest for purpose. But it’s that trailing echo, the unspoken, the overlooked, that paints our tale in the richest hues.
He sat at the bar, a man with a scar running down his face. He’d been through it, the war, the loss, the love. Each drink, a chapter; each scar, a battle. The stories were there. Behind him, he dragged them like a burden.
A flicker. A brush of wind through leaves. She watches the garden, pondering life’s endless, winding thread. The bluebird flits, its plume whispering stories of ages; a tether from past to future. A single thread can bear the weight of a thousand souls.
A squirrel, fluffy appendage all abristle, navigates suburbia. Its mission: to hoard, survive, and be merry. The cosmic joke? The creature is but an echo of humanity’s folly. History trailing behind us, like a furry little afterthought.
The tail end of the process….comes at the end…how do you want your team to feel…at the tail end of the day, the week, the quarter, the year? Can you identify how you’d want them to describe you as a leader; their relationship with the team; with their work and, ideally with the organization (granted you can’t solve that completely)…how can your microclimate create this? what’s within your control?
i always thought pin the tail on the donkey was a stupid game. blindfold a kid, spin ’em around, then let ’em loose charging forward with a sharp object. now velcro the tail on the donkey? that I could work with
In the subway, shoulder to shoulder, vibrant stories abound. We chase our own beginnings, middles, and endings, in a relentless quest for purpose. But it’s that trailing echo, the unspoken, the overlooked, that paints our tale in the richest hues.
He sat at the bar, a man with a scar running down his face. He’d been through it, the war, the loss, the love. Each drink, a chapter; each scar, a battle. The stories were there. Behind him, he dragged them like a burden.
A flicker. A brush of wind through leaves. She watches the garden, pondering life’s endless, winding thread. The bluebird flits, its plume whispering stories of ages; a tether from past to future. A single thread can bear the weight of a thousand souls.
A squirrel, fluffy appendage all abristle, navigates suburbia. Its mission: to hoard, survive, and be merry. The cosmic joke? The creature is but an echo of humanity’s folly. History trailing behind us, like a furry little afterthought.