That's the way he was with people. That's the way he always
looked
at people. That's the way he always
looked
at me: as if he was
inside
the
house
ie
"inside
his
eyes"
(if you will) pressing up against the irises in front of them ie
pressing up against the
glass,
as
close
as he could be - indeed, it's not
humanly
possible to get any
closer
to another
human being
than he got to people. His gaze was always calm,
completely
calm. It never wavered. He was with me as
close
as it's possible for another
human being
to be with me, his gaze always pressing up against the front of his
eyes,
a
child
always in awe and
wonder,
beginner's mind,
always pressing up against the
glass
as hard as he could.
Two of my most memorable experiences of him (of which there are many)
are both set in hotel lobbies about thirty years apart. In the first
one, I was
enrolled
in a
communicationcourse
called The
CommunicationWorkshopdecades
ago. It was the first
communicationcourse
I ever
participated
in. I arrived at the venue, the
Holiday
Inn
Golden Gateway
on Van Ness avenue in San Francisco, early - very, very early. That's
the way I like to handle myself around
coursesWernercreates:
get there early, no rush, no last minute panic,
watch
the passing show, and gradually merge with the space. He
was the
courseleader
(I found that out later), and he also arrived early, striding over to
the concierge desk, presumably to check himself in to his room. He
didn't see me
sitting
on a comfy couch in the lobby,
watching
him.
Soon it became obvious that the clerk at the concierge desk was being
what we euphemistically call a total a-hole. I couldn't overhear
the
conversationword
for
word.
But I did see the drama. He would say something, to which the clerk
would throw up his hands like he was having a hissy fit. He would say
something else, to which the clerk would run his hands through his
hair, wringing his palms, and shouting back at him (that much I could
hear). He would say something else, to which the clerk would stomp his
feet. He was going to have his hissy fit in front of everyone in the
lobby. I couldn't
believe
what I was witnessing.
His response to the hissy fit was as remarkable as the hissy fit was
uncalled for. He just
stood
there holding his ground. He never raised his
voice.
He never yelled back. He gave whatever information the clerk requested.
He wasn't drawn into the hissy fit. He was cool and calm. He was (it
seemed to me)
training
the clerk that his hissy fit wasn't forwarding any of the
action,
and that there were other possible more
workableopenings
for
communication
- and he did it all without once making the clerk wrong. Eventually the
clerk let out one last indignant sputter, and gave him what I surmised
was his paperwork and room key. He took them carefully, then reached
over and shook the clerk's hand,
thanked
him, and left the counter unruffled,
walking
tall, not
looking
back.
In the second one, I myself was checking into a hotel somewhere in
Europe. I was there for a private
visit with Werner
and I was elated, and the clerk this
time
at the concierge desk was being great with me (but that's not what this
is about). That's when I noticed him
standing
there also in line. He was checking in to the same hotel (probably not
a co-incidence). When he saw me, his
facelit up.
He embraced me, and we
stood
there talking as the line was moving very slowly. Then he asked me if
I'd be
interested
in him sharing my room with me - which on the
face
of it, wasn't a bad idea: he's a great
guy,
and it would have saved both of us a considerable amount of
money.
On
visits like these,
I hardly ever
sleep.
If I'm not making copious
notes
before each meeting, then I'm transcribing what
happened
as fast as I can afterwards. Every available surface (desk, table,
shelves, window sill, sometimes even chairs and the floor)
are covered with my sheets of handwritten pencil
notes,
rendering the living space not exactly conducive to sharing. I want
the TV on whenever I want it on, and I want room
service
whenever I'm hungry (I lose too much precious
time
going out for meals) no matter what
time
of day or night it is, and I want no distractions.
So I declined his request - politely, but firmly. He
got
it and he didn't make a big deal of it. In retrospect on my part, it
was a mistake. I could have had both. I could have made it
work.
In fact it would have made an
interesting
dynamic ie a
perfect
dynamic if I had included him, especially given what was up for me
(and, in all likelihood, what was up for him too, although I didn't
ask). That was it, my second memorable experience of him in a hotel
lobby: in the first one (it was my gain) I admired him; in the second
one (it was my loss) I declined him.
He must have led
courses
for nearly (I would estimate) a
quarter of a million
people
- probably way more than that. He
served
in the United States armed forces as a marine, and as a superintendent
of
schools
before he became a
courseleader
and a
trainer.
And there was no one with whom he came in contact (and I do
mean no one) that he didn't leave with something more,
with something new, with some possibility that wasn't
present
for them before.
Yet perhaps his biggest
contribution
to people (which is to say perhaps the biggest inspiration he would
become for people) began when he was diagnosed with a particularly
virulent, aggressive form of cancer which, of
course,
was supposedly going to be rapidly terminal. Lesser mortals would have
rolled over and submitted upon receiving such bad
news.
Not he. He took on his own
health
in a way that just didn't seem possible. He
got
the cancer so handled that he came back for a second term and
trained
thousands more people.
He wasn't a runner, and yet as part of his newly
self-imposed
cancer vanquishing
health
regimen, he took on,
trained
for, and won the one hundred mile Wasatch endurance road
race over the mountains of Utah, in his division. He was sixty four
years old then. As if that wasn't enough, he wasn't a weight lifter,
and yet he took on,
trained
for, and won the United States
power
lifting championship in his weight and age division. He was seventy two
years old then. And as if that wasn't enough, he wrote a
book titled
"Aging Or Ageless? Rise
Like A Phoenix From The Myth Of Aging"
which distinguishes
clear
and critical choices each of us can make in the inevitable matter of
our own aging process, thereby
transforming
overcoming aging into living an ageless life, which sold respectable
numbers.
There was one thing however, which epitomized everything he represented
for me. With all that he was, with all that he
stood
for, with all that he became, and with all his sheer inspiration, I
often
wonderedwho he wasfor himself.
Who was this man
for himself, that he could do what he did, inspire
the way
he inspired, take on what he took on, and
stand
so tall in such
triumph
against such seemingly insurmountable overwhelming odds? Then one day I
got
my
answer
as I
watched
a
video of
an interview he gave.
And the
interviewer,
not
knowing
everything about him yet certainly
knowing
a lot about him, asked him "What do you do for a living?" (not
"Who are you?"
but rather "What do you do for a living?"). And this is
what he said (and I'll never forget it):
He said "I'm a consultant, and ..." then added purposefully,
powerfully:
"I'm ... a ...
creator.".
So that'swho he was
for himself: a
creator.
Wow! Just "Wow!". In
transformation,
we each
create
our own lives in the space
we really are.
By
creating
a
powerful
life, we highlight both our
power
to
create,
as well as the space
we really are
in which we
create.
What he
created
was so ridiculously
powerful
(United States marine, superintendent of
schools,
husband,
father,
trainer,
vanquisher of virulent aggressive terminal cancer, one hundred mile
road race winner at sixty four, United States
power
lifting champion at seventy two, author) as to put a unique indelible
mark on the roadmap of global
transformation.
There's one more thing, and it's where this all started for me when he
led my
communicationcourse
at the
Holiday
Inn
Golden Gateway
on Van Ness Avenue in San Francisco
decades
ago. There were about four hundred people in that
course.
I experienced something in the
course
(ie something
happened
for me in the
course)
in the matter of who I am as a
communicator.
I
got
something very profound. I held up my hand to share, and he called on
me. What I shared was over stylized, over intellectualized, over
conceptualized, and certainly overly dramatic. It made total sense to
me - but probably not to anyone else. And I asked him (I was a newbie
back then) what the experience I just had (quote unquote)
"means". And there,
standing
on the podium right in front of that group of four hundred people, he
looked
me
directly
in the
eye
and, without missing a beat, said "Who
knows?!"
in his
big,
booming
voice,
smiling his pressed up hard against the
glass
smile.
I
got
my life from that "Who
knows?!"
of his, and from his smile - as did hundreds and hundreds of thousands
of others who, just like me,
love
him.