A city can leave its mark in an instant. For former Canadian Governor General Adrienne Clarkson’s parents, Rio de Janeiro was a happy moment on a perilous and uncertain journey in their migration to Canada from Hong Kong in 1942. (For more details, see her book, Room for All of Us.)
While the Red Cross’ Gripsolm was docked in Rio, her parents explored the town and found cafes full of couples dancing the samba. Her mother forever carried the urge to return to Rio and ‘really learn to samba’. I can only imagine the mark a festive dance in a festive place would make on a young refugee couple making their way from a way of life that put their existence in peril, still on a perilous journey heading to uncertainty. In my imagination, I see the young couple fearful for themselves and their two small children (Clarkson was two and a half), concerned about the family left behind, their well-being on the Gripsolm, and if all the effort to flee to Canada would be worth the effort. Perhaps this brief moment in a city that loves to dance reminded them of what makes them feel good despite the circumstances.
Cities are constantly inviting us to enjoy them. What is not constant is our reaction. Rio invited these young refugees to feel good, and significantly, they fully accepted the invitation. I imagine other refugees declined the invitation to explore Rio and did not step off the ship. Others will have explored the city and engaged in various degrees. Some will keep walking when they hear the music. Others will pause and listen. Others will go inside and see exactly what’s happening. Others will move to the front of the crowd for the best view. Others will take their turn on the dance floor. Others will take a turn making the music.
It is up to us to make a decision about what we make of the invitation. It’s not possible to take everything in, nor are we interested in everything the city has to offer. That is the beauty of the diversity of the city – there is something for everyone.
But it isn’t only about being invited, it is also about making invitations. In Rio, someone set and prepared the venue. Someone invited the musicians. Someone provided food and refreshment. Someones cleans up afterwards. Following what makes us feel good, we all play various roles in the myriad of invitations the city makes to its citizens and visitors.
Whether inviting or being invited, the choice at every turn is simply degrees of participation and finding one that suits. I am not a musician and I’ll dance a little. To fully enjoy, I am often happy to watch or walk by knowing that something compelling could be around the corner. In other instances I put myself on the stage or serve on the clean-up crew.
In cities, we each take our turns making invitations and being invited. We offer and we receive joy. The choice at every turn is when and how we participate in the dance that is the city, knowing that we will feel good.
As Clarkson puts it: some of the most frivolous things in life are the most important.
Nancy Duarte, author of Resonate and Slide;ology, belives that we each have the power to change the world with our ideas. She notices that when an idea is embedded in a story arc, the audience gets attached to ideas and they take root. When a story is told, we physically react, and it is through this process that ideas take hold in us.
Any presentation, then, is about the story and the audience. The story’s arc is grounded in the hero, but the hero is not the presenter, as we usually think: it is the audience. In her TEDx EAST talk, Duarte offers the perfect metaphor: the presenter is not young Luke Skywalker out to save the world, but his mentor, Yoda. The presenter is not the star of the show; the presenter is more like Yoda, who helps the audience move from one thing to another.
There is more to this metaphor than meets the eye:
The world is full of Lukes. There is not one Luke Skywalker that will save the world, but 7 billion. It is not up to one hero to make a difference, but the hero in each of us.
Yoda intelligence is everywhere. There are, all around us, people with Yoda intelligence offering their wisdom to anyone willing to receive.
The Luke in us works on inner well-being. As was the case with young Luke, heros have moments when they are frustrated and do not believe in themselves. In this mode they have great difficulty hearing the messages of their mentors. It is life’s journey to face difficulty and find peace and strength in such difficulty.
The Yoda in us notices the right challenge at the right time for apprentices. Each of us will at several points in life play the role of mentor or coach. Our default is to imagine that we must provide direction to our apprentices, but recall Yoda, who sits patiently, waiting for Luke to learn at his own pace. He knows what challenge will, at the right time, best support Luke’s learning. And he remains ever calm and patient with the apprentice while the angst of learning is taking place.
With so many Lukes and Yodas in the world, the odds are for us, not against us.
People are compelled to gather. We are compelled to have time alone and in small groups, and we are also compelled to gather in large and huge groups. And we build spaces and places in our cities to do so. This is a characteristic of how we live as a species.
Last night I was struck by how we gather to listen to live music in the thousands despite our easy access to the music. Recently the only way to hear and enjoy others’ music was live, with the musician right in front of you. Radio, television, records, tapes, CDs and itunes have not dampened our interest in gathering to hear music live. And the spaces we have created for this very activity still serve this impulse. They are critical to our very being.
Having places to gather en mass are a feature in every community/town/city I have experienced. Not necessarily for everyone to gather – those who are attracted to the invitation to gather show up. And we build bigger and bigger spaces for gathering as we need to, be it hockey arenas, concert halls, open spaces in front of city hall and the provincial legisture, and expansive open green spaces. We use the spaces to gather to protest, enjoy culture, have a celebration, watch sports, raise money, hang out with families and friends, and just be with other people.
Ultimately these massive places are a place where we look after each other, whether the community hall in a rural town or the convention centre in a city. At a concert we are feeding our cultural identity and sorting out how we make our way through the world as individuals and as a collective. The same is happening when we gather to protest the decisions of our elected officials. In times of crisis we gather to hold one another, to hear news of what is happening or what to do next. We create places for the commons to nourish our souls. They help us thrive as a people.
From last night’s mass gathering to hear Death Cab for Cutie at Edmonton’s Shaw Convention Centre (from ‘The Sound of Settling’:
If you’ve got an impulse let it out
A city’s impulse? To gather its people and host them well.
Christina Baldwin and Ann Linnea,wonderful leading spirits in Circle work, asked my mom, Margaret Sanders, to share our story of our work with the City of St. Albert. A wonderful tale of how Circle can bring community together around much more than what the conflict is about. As I think about it, it was a wonderful experience that deepened a design charrette experience for participants.
A 10 year old friend of mine has nailed down the simplest way to grow as a person. I am fascinated by how simple this is – and how hard.
Mark made some errors on the soccer field last week, got put on the bench and got a “talking to” by the coach. Mark felt really bad and hurt – he made mistakes, which made him feel bad, and his coach told him in no uncertain terms that he had screwed up.
Mark and his mom had a challenging conversation about this. Here is Mark’s wicked wisdom:
1. If I do something right, I want to hear about it. I want to know what I am doing right.
2. If I do something wrong, I want to hear about it. I want to learn how to play the game better.
3. It is really hard to hear that I am doing something wrong but I want to hear it anyway.
4. At times, coaches are not so good at delivering a message. I have to look past that because I want to hear what s/he has to say.
I have missed and overlooked a lesson that my kids are offering me every year: the gift of receiving. They are full of joy and trust and love. They are thrilled knowing this Christmas season they will receive gifts destined just for them. They are full of wonder and awe.
I realize I have been making an assumption my whole life that giving is hard to do. It can be hard, particularly when I give something we are attached to. It was hard as a kid, but as I have grown older, it gets easier to see that what I have to give is more precious to others than it is to me. What has gotten harder is receiving gifts from others.
Back to my kids – full of joy and trust and love when it comes to asking for receiving gifts. As an adult, I am noticing that it has become increasingly difficult to receive, let alone ask for, a gift. Receiving a gift – a compliment, a favour, a thank you, a gift – is fraught with emotion. A brush-off, suspicion, anxiety, fear, powerlessness, selfishness, vulnerability all take their turn.
Within me, receiving a gift feels like I am broadcasting weakness. How dare I reveal that I don’t have everything I need, that I am all together. I must put on a brave face no matter what. If I am sick or hurt, it is easy to rationalize welcoming help. But if I am physically well, then I had better not ask for anything. But this does not serve me or others well, in the end. Even the gifts I did not ask for, the ones that make be feel bad but are really in service to my own personal learning and growing. Those gifts that I realize much later that really were gifts, not torture.
At the bottom of all of this is my sense of self worth. The biggest gift I can give is to myself – the gift of receiving. I will be honest and reveal when my soul feels bad and ask for what I need. When I receive the gift of hard-to-hear feedback, I will receive it as a gift to be in better relationship with those around me. When the world says “no” I will take that as a sign that I am not needed there yet. When the world says “yes” I will take that as a sign to jump in the canoe and head down the stream.
Receiving gifts is tough, perhaps because it is closer to my heart and my sense of well-being. Far more personal, even threatening. But also far more rewarding. And more giving.
A parting note to self (via my friend Chris Corrigan) – it is hard to give if the gift is not received.
Last week, in a room full of people milling around, I was in conversation with a handful of leaders. A couple had leadership by virtue of position/status – senior people in an organization. A couple of others (including myself) also by position/status in that we were the “experts” brought in to teach. A couple of others were leaders by virtue of their ability to step up and do/say what needs to be done/said. Just outside our circle was Onlooker. Listening in. Hanging on every word. Clearly interested, but removed from the conversation. Clearly keen to be a part of what was happening, but clearly separate.
At first, I wondered why Onlooker didn’t just take the initiative to jump in and join. None of us in conversation would mind. Clearly, we weren’t speaking of anything top secret to be having such a conversation within earshot of others. I felt frustrated that this onlooker didn’t just step in – it seemed even sinister that Onlooker would just listen in like that.
So I made an invitation. “Onlooker, why don’t you step into the circle? You are welcome to join us.” “Thank you – I was waiting for the invitation.”
Onlooker was waiting for the invitation. I was floored.
I have been sitting with this question for a few days: whose job is it to make someone feel welcome? As I reflect, my first reaction was to question why Onlooker didn’t just take the initiative to step in. I see now that there is a vital relationship between the circle and onlookers:
The circle could have something important for the onlooker
The onlooker could have something important for the circle
One must take initiative to make the connection
The other must reciprocate to make the connection
If the connection is not made, the possibility is lost or destroyed
If the onlooker wants to play, s/he must risk jumping in
If the circle wishes to grow and learn, it needs to seek out and invite onlookers
At the heart of this are the possibilities that come with risk. An onlooker risks indifference or rejection in seeking to play. The circle risks having to shape and adjust to make room for someone new. The bottom line, though, is that we all know what it feels like to be an outsider. It is a lonely place to be – even powerless. Not everyone is always brave and courageous in this place against the power and camaraderie of the circle, so it is necessary for the outer edge of the circle to be permeable and welcoming.
A permeable, expansive circle will:
Recognize the power/status of being in/out of the circle
Freely invite onlookers
Trust the onlooker brings value
Expect and welcome the onlooker’s turbulence
Adapt and adjust to turbulence
Notice what is understood differently
As you read this, onlooker, I invite you to my circle.
I am part of the design team leading the 2010 Alberta Professional Planners Institute conference October 17-20, 2010 in Lake Louise. We have chosen questions to guide a big conversation, rather than in speakers. We have done this with the express purpose of surfacing the elephants in community planning. It is easy to hide when we sit and listen to experts. A new possibility we are designing for: explore the untapped expertise and wisdom we already have amongst us. The metaphor we are using to guide our design: the elephant.
Either the metaphor of the elephant is resonating with people, or it is an elephant itself. We get comments about the questions that will be guiding our inquiry about planning and where it fits in the scheme of things. The questions are too big. What do you mean by the questions? Of course I am planning to survive, aren’t you? The questions are too big! The questions lead to so many other questions? Boy, do those questions ever stop to make me think…
In a way, one of the elephants in the room are questions themselves. How often do we think we have it right, without even asking questions. John Godfrey Saxe’s poem is in our consciousness as we design, and we are curious about how this relates to community/town/city/country/northern/rural planning:
I.
It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.
II.
The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
“God bless me!-but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!”
III.
The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried: “Ho!-what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me’t is mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!”
IV.
The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a snake!”
V.
The Fourth reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
“What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain,” quoth he;
“‘Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!”
VI.
The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: “E’en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!”
VII.
The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a rope!”
VIII.
And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!
MORAL.
So, oft in theologic wars
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean, And prate about an Elephant Not one of them has seen!
We explored how conversational leadership takes place, and how through conversational leadership, the doors open to co-create wise action and change in our organizations and communities.
Last week I relished the opportunity to show up and be hosted, rather than be host at the latest Art of Hosting gathering in the Edmonton area. While I worked hard to get the word out to people I know who are searching continually for ways to be well with others, it was wonderful to arrive without having to organize anything. Rather than attending to the details of the venue, process design considerations etc., I was able to arrive in a different way: most fully and selfishly expecting to learn at every turn. As host, I expect to learn at every turn, but there is a slight but meaningful distinction when being hosted – a bit more freedom to explore and invest in self. It is a marginal distinction with significant implications.
The implication – and gift – for me is remembering how difficult it can be for me to be hosted. Hence, I have been pondering the difference between being host and being hosted.
Host - Hosted
The smililarities between being host and being hosted are striking: both require welcoming the stretch of learning together, offering self fully and deeply to each other, and engaging together around a passionate call.
The distinction between host and hosted lies in the invitation, intention and the design. Being host means noticing and responding to a burning question, the passionate call to gather. Being hosted means responding to the resonance of that call. Being host means holding space (the physical and metaphysical) for the invitation and the gathering itself. Being host also means designing process to create the conditions to release holding the space to allow those hosted to co-create space. Hosting means intentionally letting go. Being hosted means following resonance and choosing where to place attention.
In the setting of an art of hosting gathering, the hosted have an opportunity to become hosts. The hosts also welcome being hosted. In this relationship, both the host and hosted are actively engaged in co-learning. Around the right question, this learning relationship takes place in connection to meaningful work.
Beyond the setting of an art of hosting offering, living the conundrum of being host and being hosted remains alive. To host well, I must be willing to be hosted. Willing to be hosted, I am open to surprise, willingly receiving what is offered.
Last week I recognized that I have been “holding” the art of hosting in Alberta for quite a long time with a couple of others – Marg and Hugh. It is hard to hold space – even with mates. It isn’t something that can even be held. It can only be.
The art of hosting is about co-creating space, and opening space. It isn’t something to hold long.
As we have just wrapped up an Art of Hosting and Harvesting gathering in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada yesterday, I sense a distinct gift received by the participants. Not unlike the first bicycle we long for – a whole new way to move through the world.
This is a wondrous gift to receive, but that first bicycle does not come ready to use. In fact, great support is needed to figure out how to ride a bike: love and encouragement from my teachers, a hand on the seat for balance as I figure out this new movement, a hand near the seat when I don’t believe I can do it on my own, and a teacher who know just when to let go to let me try it on my own. And of course, scraped knees and hands as we fall and start all over again. Until we are ready to roll, practice for many years, then teach what we know to another.
