CHAPTER 1

Purpose and Vision   

Cultivating joy requires commitment and practice. Clarity of both purpose and vision centers us in why we lead and what we want to happen in our work and the world. It is our north star and our place of deepest inspiration. Without it, our leadership can wither and become transactional rather than transformative. Work grounded in purpose and vision is a wonderful source of joy.

Choosing on purpose

At the end of 2020, I was invited to moderate a large event that was going to feature a well-known Black senatorial candidate. My first reaction was, “Oh, ain’t I something? I’m gonna moderate a panel with this politico.” Then I looked at the date and realized I would have to move certain things around. Nonetheless these political operators were inviting me, and I was feeling myself.

But then I had the second thought, which was, “Why would I want to do that?” No disrespect to the panelists or the organizers who were creating that space, but ultimately, for me, it would have been a performative event that would require my vital time and energy, even if it was strategic and necessary for political debate.

Once I got my little self out of the way and listened, I realized it would take a lot away from my central work and it would be difficult to shift my other commitments. I simply declined, saying, “I’m just not available.”

The minute I wrote that to the organizers, I heaved this huge sigh of relief.

The world needs us as leaders to be only and always on purpose. And if it’s not on purpose, don’t do it. I know that I’m on purpose when I get filled up and excited by an idea, not drained. I’m just jazzed to think about it.

As leaders, how much time do we spend on purpose? And when we are not, what could that time and energy be used for otherwise?

Thrive where you’re planted

Several years ago, I noticed a stick growing in my neighborhood a few doors down from my house. It was right at the edge of the curb, angling out into the street. I didn’t pay too much attention to it.

Within a year, I could see it was a fig tree. There were little-bitty figs clinging to the branches. I was sure that someone from the city would come by and cut it down—clearly it was a “volunteer” fig, as no one in their right mind would have planted it so close to the street and at such an angle.

This year it is almost as tall as I am and is filled with the most delicious bright green figs—you can’t buy these beauties even in gourmet shops!

I’ve been quietly rooting for the little tree over the years, hoping that no one would cut it or decide that it was a “nuisance.” Each summer I’ve welcomed the new leaves and fruit, glad that they grace our very urban street. Each summer our tree has brought sweetness to those who pass by (and I’ve noticed that the fruit isn’t wasted—I’m surely not the only one who is harvesting).

There are those who would say that the tree shouldn’t be there. It’s a hazard to drivers and could make a mess if the fruit should fall. They have a point. Meanwhile I’ve been rejoicing that it continues to grow and thrive—it’s a reminder about deep purpose. All that fig “knows” is that it’s here to seek the sun and make sweet fruit. It is not concerned with zoning laws or arboreal civic planning. It is busy doing what trees do, photosynthesizing, sending roots down for water, and sending out oxygen—a gift to humans everywhere. That fig was going to be a fig tree independent of where it was planted. It might not have grown so big or so rapidly, but it was going to be a fig no matter what!

Like fig trees, each of us has a purpose and it doesn’t matter where we find ourselves. Our purpose doesn’t change. It is crucial as leaders that we get in touch with and understand why we’re here— what our unique purpose is.

Unlike fig trees, humans can move about the world. We are not limited to wherever a passing bird might leave its droppings. We can seek work that allows us to express our purpose fully or choose organizations that will enable us to thrive. It is our responsibility as leaders to find the best environments in which to bring and express our biggest gift—our purpose.

We humans are so lucky to have cousins like the fig to grace our lives and teach us. My neighborhood is so lucky to have our particular tree, and I am grateful for all the love and support I receive from my communities.

Staying on purpose

There are lots of feelings swirling these days: fear, outrage, outrage about who has the right to be outraged. There are feelings of sadness, grief, helplessness, and being overwhelmed. I’m sure there are many more, and it seems like I’ve felt them all. Why all the hatred? How come folks are so cruel to each other? In the words of Rodney King, “Can we all get along?”

I don’t know.

But I do know that any response I (or a community or a country) may make will rarely be a good one when it comes from a state of anger or fear. I know that my best first response under turbulent circumstances is to be still and listen to my heart, to attend to my inner knowing. Otherwise, I will only react and replicate the very thing I’m reacting to—and that generally only leads to more mess.

Moving toward stillness is somewhat counterintuitive when faced with hostility and possible annihilation. However, in that moment of pause it is possible to take a breath and consider options. And there are always options—never only a single possibility.

If I wait until my emotional waters are still, I can respond in ways that allow me to bring kindness, creativity, and my best wisdom to whatever situation I’m in. One of the most efficient ways to still my waters is to take a breath and connect to my purpose.

My personal life purpose is to remember that there is no person outside the human circle—every single one of us belongs. There really is no “them” or “us” even when it is politically or emotionally convenient for me to pretend otherwise. I am the eager concert-goer and the young man who strapped bombs onto his precious body. I am the Syrian refugee fleeing tyranny and I am the U.S. legislator demanding we close our borders. Thich Nhat Hanh teaches us this in his poem Please Call Me by My True Names. When I remember this, I can consider more clearly what kind of response I choose to make when confronted with complexity and outrage.

I invite you to reflect on your purpose. Why are you here on this planet at this time? What is it that you, uniquely, are here to offer? Give yourself the gift of time to sit with this question awhile.

When you’ve come to stillness, ask: What is mine to do in this situation?

And when that becomes clear, do that.

I believe that if we all take the time to pause, listen in, and get clear on our purpose, then we have the capacity to respond to a changing and unpredictable world in fresh and creative ways. A legion of purposeful people leading with kindness, compassion, and interconnection is something of great beauty and power. Let us work to make that the case.

Imagine

“It is hard for us to imagine what we cannot see.”

SALLY RIDE

True, and yet we must imagine.

Lately I’ve been experimenting with centering my time and attention on the world that so many of us are working hard to create. I imagine it tirelessly—it has become almost a prayer. The world right around the corner whose breath Arundhati Roy can hear. I love spending time and energy working toward something we can’t yet see, can only imagine, that emerges from wholeness and our deepest heart’s desire.

These days I’m listening for transformation, where we move not from vanilla to chocolate, but from vanilla to music! I’m willing to take great leaps of faith—to be foolish, wasteful, and extravagant in my imagination. It’s the only way I can see that will get us through and beyond our current moral and political crises.

Why not dare to imagine? It’s terrific fun, makes many things possible that weren’t otherwise, and vastly increases our appetite for engaging the world. After the past several years of deep imagining, I have to say that I am significantly more resilient, creative, and immensely happier as a result. This is a space from which I can authentically and whole-heartedly lead.

Some might say that this is pie-in-the-sky dreaming. Perhaps it is, but it is deeply rooted in and from my Black woman’s wisdom born of many years of lived experience. I know in my bones that it is time to turn my attention away from anything that saps our spirits, kills our children, rapes our lands, or robs us of our humanity. I am no longer willing to spend my time attending to a system that never intended for most of us to survive, let alone thrive.

Even those of us who are working deep in the belly of the beast (and I so appreciate those who are) need time to rest, dream, and envision this fast-approaching world. All of us deserve respite from the soul-killing work of living in a toxic and hate-filled political and social arena. Imagining is not mere whistling in the dark—it is a potent act of transformation and world building. It is the process by which we locate our north stars and find our way to liberation.

I invite you to join me out in this fertile field of possibility! We have nothing to lose, everything to gain, and I have a strong notion that our children’s children’s children will sincerely thank us for it.

Power, preparation, and practice

We often get asked by young women, particularly young Black and Brown women, “How do you just walk in the room and act like you own it?” As queer women of color, this question matters because we are up against race, gender, class, caste, and culture—our histories co-influence what happens all the time. While we don’t want to be bound by the dysfunction of our histories, they are in the room with us. To know yourself and who you are, and to navigate others’ perceptions of you means that Black and Brown women leaders are constantly(!) negotiating power.

To show up in our own power is actually a matter of discipline and strategy.

The first step is doing our homework. Before we walk into any room, we know the answer to these questions: “Who am I trying to move? For what purpose? What’s my goal?” It’s not just the fierce outfit we wear or what we say. We show up well prepared. We enter with an assessment of who we’re trying to organize and for what purpose, and our “why” is clear.

Another important step is to commit to the continuous spiritual practice of affirming our own worthiness and the value of life. We do this so that when we walk into the room, we know it is not an accident. We recognize the leap of faith it takes to be in the room representing the more just and equitable world we are building. We hold deep in ourselves that we belong there, and we practice moving from a place other than ego.

Women are often socialized to take on a lot of responsibility, ignore ourselves completely, and put everyone else first. We’re really practiced at false humility. But this can be a way of stepping away from the power that we actually can and do have. In this time, it’s vital that Black and Brown women are not tentative about whether there is a role for their leadership.

It is time for people who have traditionally been blocked from leadership to say yes to the full magnitude of power we can exert in the world. We can do this in recognition of Black and Brown women’s wisdom as universal wisdom.

Leaders who are young women of color in particular are met with a lot of contempt in doing so: “Who are you? How dare you make decisions for the rest of us?” They are walking the line of trusting their own leadership, while navigating constant criticism and attempts to diminish them.

No matter how prepared—literally or spiritually—we are, we will be dealing with people who find it difficult to reconcile with the power of women of color. Anytime anybody doesn’t fit in a box, it’s a mirror that forces self-reflection and can be very uncomfortable for others. Thus, we have to again return to our preparation and practice.

Let us constantly learn how to calibrate the use of our own power: how to be both self-assured and confident, and also clear on what’s best for everyone.

No longer a pipe dream

I facilitated a meeting of financial leaders and activists focused on creating new economic models in 2020. The group was diverse, international, many genders, ranging in age from early twenties to mid-fifties—all people actively doing this work.

As the meeting started, I noticed that the end of patriarchy and white supremacy kept coming up consistently. I thought, “Okay, y’all name it.”

And then they continued to name it and name it and name it as a context for all of their work. The men talked about it. The women talked about it. The people of color. I mean, everybody talked about it, including the four or five white men in the room.

It was a clarity that I have never heard in my life. I was stunned. Of course, they represent a certain cohort of people in the world, but there they were, the words were just coming out of their mouths. It wasn’t performative of their wokeness.

I realized that this thing—this end of patriarchy and white supremacy—is no longer a pipe dream. I remember talking about it as a young woman and it’s here. It hasn’t fallen completely, obviously, as the Trump years revealed. But this moment for me was just a huge indicator of these oppressive systems falling down.

The near-death experience

My brother says I had my eyes closed and a smile on my face as the van we were in hurtled toward the edge of the cliff. The brakes had failed on a hairpin turn while driving us to a village in rural Meghalaya, miles outside of the city of Shillong in northeast India. The fifteen or so passengers in the van were screaming as bodies slammed about the cabin. The driver, a Bangladeshi refugee, exercised great brilliance in the midst of what promised to be a life-ending crisis and slammed the front of the bus into a hillside. I was sure this was it, and I took to a meditation of gratitude and letting go. It has, after all, been a pretty good life. If this was it, I was all right with it.

This is how I did not die.

The van landed on its left side. All humans and luggage from the right side ricocheted and then landed on those of us on the left side of the van. When I reopened my eyes, a thin older man had fallen on top of me, my own body acting as his shield against the broken windows. Several folks, including my colleague Rajiv and my brother Roveen, had concussions. Adrenalin kicked in and I immediately got to work getting folks out of the bus along with one other person, a firefighter who just happened to be in our van as a vacationer. We dragged injured and confused people out of the van to the side of the road. Then fuel started leaking out of the van and an explosion seemed imminent.

I had felt no fear of death until I looked toward my brother. I imagined having to explain to my two little nephews why their dad didn’t make it back from the Indigenous Tierra Madre conference, the largest-ever global gathering of Indigenous people to discuss food and agriculture.

Beyond human calculation, all passengers survived this accident. We ended up in a nearby clinic for a medical checkup and treatment for all those with broken bones. Our lives, however, were undeniably changed.

I look back at that instant when my mind realized the danger and my body calmed the brain. In that brief moment, I went into a meditative stance of surrender. My heart and spirit followed the body, and I was deeply peaceful as I prepared to die. Then the mind followed and prepared to let go. I was one of two from among the fifteen passengers without any injuries. Of course, much of it was luck, but the role of taking an easeful, peaceful stance in times of crises and danger has stayed with me.

The next year, my father was diagnosed with Stage 4 kidney cancer and then multiple myeloma. He fought cancer with all his might and in the end, I was with him as he let go. Had I not nearly died a year prior to this, I might not have been able to show up as his caregiver, grounded in the temporality of life and able to meet each moment with a peaceful heart.

Almost dying was a teacher on how to live fully.

Even now, I do not fear death.

I approach each day as if it’s the most important yet, and I end each day feeling complete.