Conflicting Visions

“I need to check on the fort,” L said a few weeks ago as I unbuckled him from the car seat.

“Is it finished?” asked his brother, hopping down from the car.

“It’s mostly finished,” I said. “ We still need to accessorize. Let’s go take a look.”

Through pine needles, we walked back to the edge of the woods and climbed the ladder to what is basically a six-foot-high, freestanding deck. We take in the 360 degree view that includes a neighbor’s pond, which we didn’t know existed until now. I was excited for them to see it, not only because of the time and expense that had been put into it, but because I had already imagined the games and campouts soon to follow on the platform. (A tent is one of the accessories on our list.)

“This is nice,” L said, running to each corner for a look. “Paw-Paw did a good job.” 

“He did,” I said, my heart filling up. “That’s so nice of you to say. You should tell him that.”

“But we need cup holders,” T interrupted and stretched up onto his tiptoes to see as far as he could see. 

“Cup holders?” My forehead wrinkled. “No, we don’t need cup holders,” I said, thankful they didn’t remember asking for a punching bag.

“How about a blanket swing?” L said, his arm oscillating left to right.

“You mean a hammock?”

“Yeah, a hammock!” he said, eyes bright, and hopped down the stairs and back toward the house. His brother and I trailed behind.

Back in the garage L began to play with a bucket of lumber scraps—misshapen triangles, squares, and rectangles that we had planned to burn in the fire pit. The next thing I knew he had stacked a few blocks together to make a house; then a neighborhood. The boy loves to build and is so good at making something from nothing. He’s not yet doubtful of his skills or too fearful to give things a try. I hope he stays that way for as long as possible, if not forever.

“I want to screw them together,” he said.

“And then paint them,” T chimed in, assembling a one-story craftsman.

“But what about the tree fort?” I said.

“We’re doing this now,” T said.

But, but, but…TREE FORT, I wanted to scream, arms flailing. It wouldn’t have mattered; they were elbow deep in a five-gallon bucket of fun. 

It isn’t that they didn’t like the tree fort. Little boys know what to do with a bucket full of wood scraps. They don’t necessarily know what to do with an arboreal party deck.

--

Have you ever had a vision for someone else who didn’t quite get it? We know exactly what they should do and why, but they don’t follow through with the plan we set forth. Maybe they didn’t understand it or they simply weren’t into it? I imagine many examples come to mind if you have children or maybe a struggling friend. 

What about at work?

I once developed a mentor program for a group of adult literacy tutors. Because our nonprofit was extremely short-staffed (which one isn’t?), we decided that new tutors could be onboarded more effectively by being matched with a veteran tutor. They would touch base at different intervals during the onboarding period to answer questions, to share best practices, and to help the new tutors make a solid connection to the program. The pairs could do this over the phone, by email, or over a cup of coffee. Whatever worked for them worked for me. (Great idea, right?)

The thing was, I wanted to document the process and collect data. In the nonprofit world, you’re always begging for funds, and folks who offer those funds want to hear more than “this program works.” They want the data to prove it. That meant establishing a structured process. But these were volunteers who generously donated their time to teach another adult to read. They did not sign up to fill out a form or be regularly nagged by staff to fill out said form. And we were already trolling tutors for their monthly volunteer hours and progress updates. I thought I had made it easy by providing training, step-by-step procedures, and simple forms. To me, a predefined structure means easy. To many tutors, structure means rigid and, well, not fun. These tutors just wanted to play with their bucket of blocks.

Results from the pilot program told me the program’s structure actually limited opportunities for connection, a benefit that normally happens organically in a group like ours. The mentors felt dejected that the mentees didn’t return calls and emails, and the mentees didn’t like being stalked. I was going all Chris Farley on these tutors.  No one was in love with the program—except me. 

Before going live, I pulled way back on the documentation and contact schedule. This gave tutors more freedom to make contact as needed and when it felt right. Then our staff would conduct a temperature check during their normal touch points with tutors. The program needed the data, but our students needed their tutors more. We simply changed our collection methods. 

At first I was frustrated that the program didn’t work out as I had envisioned—that these people didn’t do what I wanted them to do. Thankfully the pilot revealed my arrogance as well as the flaws in my plan, meriting a redesign into something that would actually be helpful.

A vision for others? Yes, it can be critical in problem solving or when someone doesn’t see their own potential. But I’d also suggest that the vision cannot move from a nice thought to action that’s sustainable without some humility and an open, listening mind.

I'm off to order a tent. What vision do you have for today? Tomorrow? Next year?

Thanks for reading.