Another Kind of Climate Change
My most recent hike took me to a place I’ve never been before. Desert.
After a couple whirlwind days in Washington DC to lobby for passage of a National One Fair Wage act (as well as follow efforts to support the small business community if covid19 truly becomes a debilitating epidemic), I joined my family for three days in Tucson, Arizona to explore the Catalina Mountain range and Saguaro National Park.
Having not ever experienced this type of climate or geography before, I definitely felt out of place and full of wonder at the same time. Just the temperature change (leaving Minneapolis in the 40’s and arriving in Tucson to 80’s) was a bit of a shock, even knowing it was going to happen. But the colors, the plants, even the building construction all had me trying to dig deep into my memory base of reading and viewing and basic learnings. Somehow, though, that wasn’t enough for the actual being present in this space. Familiar and not.
I had stumbled into a whole different set of trees and plants that I couldn’t name. At first, they all seemed to be pretty similar, but then differences began to present themselves. All cacti are not the same. Having read a bit about cactus structure in a book about trees, I was still amazed to see them scattered across a field and think, if those are trees, that’s a forest after all.
In most cases, it’s easier for us to land on what’s familiar and try to stick close to that out of a sense of comfort. But since I’ve been in the midst of coaching for diversity training, I was primed to accept my discomfort in this setting and notice the difference around me. Listening the Spanish language being used around me, picking menu items that I didn’t recognize from Minneapolis restaurants. Asking questions of the guides and park docents. I felt like a huge sponge, or a swollen cactus after the rainy season.
I’m understanding again how tiring it is to be in a place where you are learning so much and working to make sense of how things relate to what you know. I’m understanding how it might lead people to shut down, say enough, or avoid some of that newness. And I’m understanding how much richer and fuller I feel by making the effort to walk into the discomfort.
As restaurant business owners, it’s easy to stick to the familiar, create a routine, and not want to change. There’s enough challenge in just creating smooth day to day operations. Why take on new and unfamiliar activities or processes if it’s going to lead to more discomfort? Taking on a new pricing model, changing one’s waste collection process, or rethinking a whole scheduling design requires huge learning efforts of new language, new ways of seeing, new connections to what we know. As I’ve attempted these myself over these past 14 years, it’s clear that they’re not the easy road. And as I’ve described my efforts to other restaurant owners (and to legislators and their staff), I can fully understand why they may hesitate to join in my enthusiasm for this new geography of business operations. I needed to lean in to their stories and understand a bit more of their perspectives and experiences to find where we could meet and work together, each with new knowledge to take us forward.
As I journeyed along our canyon hike through cactus and mesquite, I wondered if I could ever be a “person of the sand and cactus” rather than a “person of the prairie and woodlands.” Having spent my life among the lakes and pines, it seems to be deep in my being. But, what does it mean to be a person who can be comfortable in multiple environments?
As I pack my bags and begin to direct my attentions toward home, I’ll hope I can include some of these experiences and perspectives into my efforts to be a better business and continue to improve the experience of working and dining at Butter.