It was partly out of pride and a sense of privacy. “It’s nobody’s business,” the matriarch would say. She’d decline to fill out the income questions on school forms and avoid letting others see the struggle. (Although, of course, they could still see.)

It also was partly a belief that asking for help was the same as admitting failure. The right thing to do was to soldier on and know that there are others even worse off than you. To prove it, it was important to always give to others, no matter what.

So it’s no surprise that the children in this family adopted that same belief structure.  They marched on, doing the best they could, while understanding that they also must help others. It was OK for others to ask for help, but not them – that’s where the pride came in.

For the most part, it worked out OK. The children all grew up to become modestly successful and mostly productive members of society.

Until one of them really, really needed help beyond what the family could provide.

Slowly and reluctantly, they broke the tradition. They took small steps to see about getting help from a local agency, affiliated with the state. They filled out forms. And more forms. They made appointments. They cautiously talked with the agency and government workers. Over time, they began to imagine letting others help them.

It started with very small steps. And it took a very long time (years) to even allow the smallest bits of support.

Looking in from the outside, I can understand the uncertainty, mistrust and shame they felt at asking for help. Asking for help is an admission of incapability, and it is difficult to hold onto anything like self-confidence or pride when you do so.

So it was an act of courage for them to ask for help.

I know it didn’t come easily; I know they are still quite tentative. They are learning how to behave in a new way, allowing others to see the condition of their lives – and participate in making it better.

I tell their story only because it seems worth noticing this component of the human condition. It may be an odd belief system, but it may be more prevalent than we notice.  And it seems timely as so many are struggling in this economy, in one way or another, perhaps with this same discomfort of learning how to behave differently.

Perhaps I can come to recognize this and to understand that although they may not ask for help, I should be mindful enough to offer.

It also applies to my annual business review.

It’s easy to spot limitations. And the temptation is to use them as excuses.

As in:

• She can no longer remember what day it is; she’ll never be able to know what day it is or make plans or recall what she’s done.
• My business is entirely based on my own capabilities; I’ll never be able to compete against a larger firm.

The other perspective involves seeing potential in a situation, instead of focusing on the limitations.

As in:

• It’s going to be a great day! It’s going to be the fun! (Her words.)
• I can complement that other firm, and we can both support our mutual client. We’re stronger together.

There will always be limitations — personal and professional. The important thing is how you deal with them.

The image illustrates my point.

Practicing her writing skills (which have diminished), she’s still able to demonstrate a depth of emotion that’s more important than a perfect cursive stroke.

The practice is important, but recognizing the potential is inspiring and humbling.

A thread running through the topic is the importance of play and creativity in solving the problems of the world. This isn’t hyperbole — the discussion really looked at the largest issues in the world.

From Jane McGonigal: the idea that in playing games, we are using our best version of ourselves; the mindpower that can be harnessed in playing games to make the world a better place.

Her goal: to make it as easy to save the world in real life, as it is in online games. And she’s not joking. If we could increase our game playing time from its current 3 billion hours a week to 21 billion hours a week, the world would be different place.

I look at gaming in a new light.

From Michael Wesch, social anthropologist from K-State: Good questions and illustrations of the world on fire — and brilliant insights on the changes technology offers. We can’t live the next 100 years like the last.

Media uses us as much as we use it; and there is no opting out. Media mediates relationships, when media changes, relationships change — including the structure of our culture.

Technology in our hands creates new potential. Question is how will we use it? How will it change us? Wesch articulates the razor’s edge between a hopeful future and a more ominous one with new openness and freedom, transparency, mass participation vs. the potential for more survelliance and control, deception, mass distraction.

His goal is to move his students from being knowlegeable to knowledge-able. He explains we need (and need to teach) skills to find, sort, analyze, organize and create knowledge.

He told the story of when the world was on fire. All the animals running to escape, but it was impossible — the fires were raging and soon they were trapped.

One little bird had an idea. The little bird flew to the stream and picked up a drop of water in its beak, flew back to the fire and dropped the water. And again, and again, and again.

What are you doing little bird? The best I can.

The heroics inspired the rest of the creatures (or variously, the gods) who joined in to save the day and put out the fire, by working together in the example of the littlest bird.

From Francis Cholle:  We need a higher level of creativity to solve sustainability questions. Creativity will be the the No. 1 leadership competency in the future.We need to play more to become more creative — play eludes our analytical minds. Our analytical minds can be a handicap to creativity.

The most important skills to master:

• Think holistically; there’s more to consider than the P&L
• Think paradoxically
• Listen for the unusual. Or, stop thinking and start feeling.
• Lead by influence, not by control

Plenty to ponder.  Thanks, TEDxKC.

The first musing is about birds and business goals, or knowing what you really want.

The scene: I’m sitting out on the patio alone early one morning, a glorious sky, cottonwood leaves dancing in the breeze, the air full of pinon and dewy freshness. Quiet. Until something like a high-powered, bullet-speed drone circles my head. I ducked a few times until I realized they were hummingbirds.

No more ducking, just delight. They swirled and swarmed, one protecting his area more fiercely than I’ve ever seen a hummingbird behave. And the noise! I’d never heard them so close, so loud, the whirring noise they make an indication of their speed and agility. I sat unmoving and felt so privileged to have them so close to me; it was a joyful time.

Later, talking about the experience with my friends (my hosts), they related a tale of a friend of theirs.

This young woman had overheard them talking about their hummingbirds, and she had interjected that she, too, would like to have hummingbirds in her garden. My friends showed her their feeder and carefully explained the preparation of the nectar and other secrets for attracting the birds.

A couple of weeks later, they chanced to visit her. Her hummingbird feeder was hanging, but she was out batting at it with a broom, screaming.

“What’s going on?” they asked.

“Well, I put up the feeder but all I get are these big moths,” she replied.

Oh no!

“Those ‘big moths’you’re swatting are hummingbirds,” my friend explained cautiously.

As it turned out, the young woman had never actually seen a hummingbird. She thought they’d be different from the annoying little ‘moths’that she didn’t like at all.

Her expectation was different from reality; she didn’t know that she was terrorizing the very creatures she thought she wanted.

It was such a strange story, it made me think about some of my own expectations, especially as they relate to business and setting goals, dreaming about what I really want.  Always healthy to take stock of what you desire, and make sure that (a) you can recognize it for what it really is, and (b) you’re not unknowingly swatting it away.

The second musing came from a chance encounter with an Indian woman selling pottery downtown. Her work was nicely displayed and pieces caught my eye, so I stopped and we chatted.

She explained her product. “I find the right spot, I dig the earth, I mix the water and make the clay, I shape the vessel and bake it, and then I paint it,” she said simply. “I touch it, everyday, from when it is dirt until it is finished.”

The piece I was holding had a unusual design. “My great-grandmother designed that,” she said. The pictogram showed a bird in flight when looked at in one direction; when turned in the other, it became a flower like a tulip or trumpet vine.

Sold.

This businesswoman knew her product so intimately, and was so connected to it, her act of creating it was part of the bargain of owning the piece (at least for a short time, as it was a gift). Her story was simple, moving and effective. It’s exactly what we all need in our business storytelling.

***

Final random musings:

• Congratulations to the city of Santa Fe for controlling nighttime light pollution. It’s working and it’s brilliant to see the stars there.
• While I’m at it, congratulations to Santa Fe for its Plaza concert series of free excellent music — a wonderful community service. Last week’s bands were excellent, drawing crowds of dancers and music lovers. I can’t recall when I’ve seen so many smiling faces.

One occurred while visiting a friend who lives in a remote corner of the city, who happens to have a property that abuts a small lake, fed by three streams. It’s an older house, simple and gracious, and it’s obvious that my friends there spend most of their time outdoors.  He took me on little walk through the property — first down to the lakebed, where I spotted the snapping turtles near the Russian iris in bloom, around little mounded flower bed overflowing and lush, then curving along the stream over to the upper gardens. Rounding the curve, there’s a sudden surprise — delight everywhere you look. From the tidy vegetable garden to the abundant roses and old-fashioned treats (pawpaws, buckeyes, Japanese dogwood, clematis, phlox, giant lilies and dozens more, both native and exotic) it was moment after moment of glorious exploration touching, smelling, joyous appreciation of this otherworldly garden. There were birds everywhere and we were on watch for a snake and other woodland critters, all the more fun. A magical moment.

A second moment that overwhelmed was under vastly different circumstances. We were attending a Bach Aria Soloists concert, held in the ample living room of a neighbor and acquaintance. There were about 60 people in this front room, listening in rapt attention to the beautiful music. Then, a cello solo –  Bach’s Suite No. 4, one of my most favorites. I felt as though the world dissolved for a moment and all that existed was this extraordinary sound, threading and hanging in the air, wafting and dissolving. I closed my eyes and held hands with my beloved and savored the moment, filled with joy.

A third moment was almost a blending of the other two — a combination of a beautiful vast horizon of undulating lush hills all around, and the Kansas City Symphony. I was happy just with the vista, watching the cattle and the wild swallows at dusk, the occasional cowboy riding along in or out of the view. I was enjoying this with some 3000 other people, quietly relaxing on blankets or foldout chairs, on this natural amphitheater-like hillside.

As I relived these moments later, it occurred to me that I was missing something. These were not random moments, but the result of hours and hours of devotion and passion. There was work, heartfelt work, handprints on each, that made the difference. I was the beneficiary of the passion that went into each of those magical moments.

Was it work? Or a slow accumulation of invested dedication and passion? There need not be a difference, I understand, between working and living, between labor and labor of love.

It’s not magic at all.

A son, husband, father, successful businessman, a rugby player. The service was overflowing, and speaker after speaker talked about how beloved he was.

It was profoundly sad — made nearly unbearable by all the funny photos of him clowning with his kids, grinning like mad, adoring them. The photos ran in a loop on a giant screen, continuously reminding us of his life.

I realized that I only knew part of him.

We had been acquaintances, tied by the rugby circle. But as an outsider to this theater, I only saw him from the sidelines. I thought he was loud and crude, and yes, funny in that rugby way — but not much more. I didn’t see him as the best athlete in the group, nor the smartest strategist. But he did bring the team together, usually with laughter. So I liked him but I didn’t get to know him well.

It wasn’t until much later, when he contracted the disease and decided to use his very existence for something larger, that I saw him from another perspective. And I wished I’d paid attention to him sooner.

He was in a wheelchair but not not relenting from fighting that f***ing disease as he called it — he was loud, lively and brash, still outspoken and sometimes crude. Since he couldn’t make an entrance quietly, he made everything larger than life. He was a spokesman for the cure, he was an advocate for stem cell research and he challenged everyone to help beat it.

Last September, he traveled to Aspen to watch his Kansas City Blues teammates at the annual rugby tournament there, easily one of the best events in this sport. The Blues have never missed a tournament and frequently win. This year, as always, every level of the club was gunning to beat the Gentlemen of Aspen.

He gave a little talk at the halftime of the game, over the loudspeakers, for the work that would lead to an ALS cure. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it wasn’t about him, it was about winning. It was emotional only for its bold statements of truth.

At the end of the final game, a rough battle, hard fought between the Blues and the Gentlemen, the entire Aspen team walked to the far corner of the pitch to shake his hand or give him a hug. It was an extraordinarily gracious gesture from a team of rugby warriors, brothers all.

It was larger than life, just like him. Full of courage, laughter, love.

It’s happened. (Actually, it had already been described in a YouTube video from about a year ago, once again demonstrating that there are no new ideas — everything already exists on the internet. Sigh.)

The MIT Technology Review story explains how this new application combines facial recognition, database lookup and cloud computing, with augmented reality.

It’s a little creepy and raises potential issues about invasion of privacy and misuse (police, CIA, insurance companies?). The Recognizr, described in the article, takes the issue seriously and offers its service as an opt-in only, which means it can only recognize you if you’ve agreed to be recogized.

This one is going to be interesting to watch. How long before this technology shows up in a spy thriller movie? My bet — less than a year.

* * *

At the beginning of the year, I told the story of my sister’s travels from Kansas City to Columbus and the extraordinary care she received from Southwest Airlines. (“Travel Vignette on Caring“)

There’s a little bit of followup, unremarkable except that it proves, once again, that there are real people at Southwest Airlines, and they are willing to act like real people. I’m impressed, again.

After I wrote the story, my brother took the step of alerting Southwest to the post.  He got a response:

Dear John,

Thank you for your e-mail. I was thrilled to learn about your sister’s experience when she traveled with us to Columbus on January 2. We truly appreciate your family’s kind words of our airline, and we hope to welcome you all onboard a Southwest flight very soon!

Sincerely,

Lindsay, Southwest Airlines

The reminder I takeaway from this is about the power of human interaction.

Just being willing to be human — to listen, to respond, especially in a meaningful way with empathy, gratitude, care — shouldn’t be an extraordinary occurrence.

But we’ve become so accustomed to being treated as just a wallet, a sale, that when we’re treated with respect it becomes an outstanding event.

So, kudos to Southwest Airlines. Again, I’m impressed and inspired by the people there. Thanks for modeling the way it can be.

Less than a month ago, a famous painting was auctioned at Sotheby’s. It was expected to be sold for $300,000 to $500,000. It actually went for $1.5 million.

While this isn’t terribly surprising, it’s notable for the story that goes along with the painting and the sale.  It’s a Kansas City story, and in many ways, a tale of American identity and attitudes.

The painting is sometimes called the American Leonardo. It’s formal name is  “La Belle Ferronniere” or Portrait of a Woman done in the style of Leonardo DaVinci.

John Brewer, author of a new book The American Leonardo — A Tale of Obsession, Art and Money, was in Kansas City recently. He gave a vivid retelling during a talk at the Kansas City Public Library.

The story begins with a young couple in love in 1919. It’s Harry Hahn, a mechanic from Kansas, who marries a French girl Andree. A favorite aunt, Louise DuMont, gives the couple the old painting, believed to be a DaVinci — it had been authenticated as such by a French dealer.

The young couple comes to the US, where Harry opens a car dealership in Junction City. They intend to sell the painting to launch their fortunes in the US.

In 1920, Kansas City didn’t even have an art museum. The Nelson wouldn’t exist until 1927, and in the whole of the US, there were not a single museum with a DaVinci. For Kansas City, with big city aspirations, this would be a coup and could help change it’s cowtown image.

One of Kansas City’s best-known business leaders, J.C. Nichols, heads up a consortium to raise funds to buy the work. Quite exiting, until a reporter happens to seek a comment from Sir Joseph Duveen, who was a famous (and famously arrogant) art critic and dealer. Duveen might have been the most influential dealer at the time, having developed art collections for all the major American industrial giants — Mellon, Rockefeller, JP Morgan.

Duveen proclaimed the work a fake. Never mind that he’d never seen it firsthand.

Oh, the uproar! The deal to sell the painting in Kansas City falls through and Hahn decides to sue Duveen for slander and damages.

Now the egos really get inflamed. Duveen enjoys the publicity of the lawsuit at first, and hires European art masters to back him up in court. More egos, this time with a tinge of old world snobbery and intellectual superiority of intuitive judgment. They can “sense” the legitimacy of a work.

In the trial, Hahn’s attorney focuses on scientific evidence and plays up the contrast between American values (Show Me) and European snobbery. The jury is pretty solidly in Hahn’s camp, and Duveen settles out of court with Hahn in 1929.

Back to Kansas City. The Nelson has opened and is on an acquisition spree for great art. The city needs the best dealer money can buy and they hire … Duveen! He is the guest of honor at the Museum’s opening.

There are many other twists to the tale of the painting, which is mostly locked away in a bank vault over the ensuing decades.

Hahn later divorces and bitterly attacks what he calls the “art racket.” He writes a book, with support of Thomas Hart Benton, the Kansas City artist, and Frank Glenn, a rare book dealer. The book tells the story of the little man fighting against the art monopolist, but the book may have had its own ulterior motives in reigniting the controversy.

Now, with the January 2010 sale of the painting, we prepare for a new chapter.

Recent evaluators estimate that the painting dates from the 17th century, and they note that it contains pigments consistent with those Leonardo DaVinci would have used — perhaps even more consistent than a never-doubted DaVinci in the Louvre.

Meanwhile, we don’t know who the new owner is — only that it is an American in the entertainment industry. Another new character, another mystery.

This industrialist now owns a beautiful painting and it hardly matters if the painting is an authentic DaVinci or not.

Perhaps the true value is the story itself, the artwork as a foil for a study of human nature, greed, ego, cultural biases, the tension between art and profit.

Maybe this fascinating painting will again be the subject of critical assessment and scientific review, and maybe, just maybe, there’s a new ending to the tale.