Without, Basics, and The Deep Dive

Tomorrow I’m teaching and co-leading the first class of a four-session virtual series, The Circle Way: A Deep Dive. I’m doing so at the invitation of my friends and colleagues Rowan Simonsen and Amy Lenzo. Together we’ve been meeting and creating this series for the last three months. Rowan is a deep soul. His pace and skills are very grounding. Amy is the sweet spot between genius and deep caring human. We’ve known each other for years, initially through The World Cafe community.

Yesterday I was sorting through my notes and scribbles from these three months to clarify what I want to share in the class. I was facing the challenge of having a lot to share — a deep dive welcomes this — but needing to be quite discerning about how much to share and how to knit it into a simple narrative that can help people make sense of many important nuances of The Circle Way. The teachings will be in 20 minute chunks, followed by an essential engagement in smaller groups.

A key structural distinguisher of The Circle Way compared to other forms of circle and other participative leadership forums is “The Components Wheel” above. It’s the basic structure that defines the practice that is The Circle Way, originating from Ann Linnea and Christina Baldwin and their teachings over the last 25 years. As Christina has shared with me, “we wanted the lightest structure to help correct what goes awry in most contemporary forms of meeting.”

What I really enjoyed in yesterday’s preparation was playing with each of the components and creating a bit of inquiry: 1) What is it like without this component — what tends to happen? 2) What is the basic and essential definition, practice, or todo of  the component? And 3) what is the deep dive importance of this component — what is the nuancing of it’s practice that can transform the experience from a meeting to a moment-maker?

As example, consider the component of a Check-in. A Check-in is a beginning. A chance for each person in the circle to speak a bit to the whole group (or to a partner or small group if the number of participants is significantly high).

Without a check-in, when it is absent, what do we tend to get in meetings? Often it can feel like a jarring start. Bam! Right in to the content. Right in to the first third of the movie without setting the scene. No real attention to the people that are showing up in the room and how they are. No welcome of the unique circumstances that may be influencing people who are about to work together. Absence of check-in often leads to absence of people showing up and being more fully attentive together — more distracted, less connected.

The basics of a check-in involve giving each person a chance to respond to a question, whether a sequential passing of a piece or in popcorn style, speaking when ready regardless of order. My teaching colleague and friend Amanda Fenton recently posted a piece on Questions for Check-ins — she includes many important simple choices for how to begin (and how to see the deeper dive of this component). Check-in gives you a kind start that is much more likely to lead to the things most of us are looking for in our meetings —  fulfillment, productivity, and appreciation. Good, right.

My check-ins tend to invite response to two questions — “Is there anything you need or want to say that helps you be more present in this meeting together?” Responses are always interesting. From “I need a cup of coffee” to “my babysitter was sick today and I had to juggle child care.” Regardless, they create a glimpse into who is sitting next to us or across the table. The second question is usually about the work at hand — e.g., “What have you seen in the last week (or day, or hour) that further amplifies the need for what we are doing together?” This kind of question really elevates purpose in the room. Presence and purpose together — even a taste as one of the first things we do in meeting — wow!

The deep dive is more than giving each person a turn to speak. It’s definitely more that being nice together in the democracy that is dialogue. The deep dive is more than using a talking / listening piece. The deeper dive of check-in is about getting present and showing up to give full attention to one another and to the task at hand. In a rather multi-tasked population, most being pressured to squeeze much into short periods of time, paying attention only to what is in front of us has become difficult, right. Gotta think about the next meeting while I’m in this one. The deep dive of this component, check-in, is about welcoming a moment of wholeness for individuals and the group that interrupts contemporary meeting patterns of fracture and distraction. The check-in, for the moment, forms the flock, so that we can go differently together.

I’m looking forward to encouraging participants in this virtual class, and in the five day practicum and retreat that Amanda and I offer together this August to notice what happens when the component is not in place, and also to give keen attention to what is going on in such simple, and yes, I would say, liberating structure that changes how meetings happen and how human beings come alive in them.

Please join us. Not too late for the virtual class. And this summer’s practicum is starting to fill with really good people.

Inklings

I met Beth Tener in 2014 at an Art of Hosting retreat that I was co-leading in Maine. I remember appreciating immediately an inner curiosity that I felt in her. Someone who could see a bigger picture, just by the kinds of questions she was asking and the insights she was sharing. A super human being. Beth and I have stayed in touch periodically through shared friends and a few sprouts of emails and blog posts.

Beth recently shared one of her blog posts that left me in a big smile. Her topic was “micro-collaborations”. Having good partners to brainstorm with. To challenge and inspire our creativity together. Relationship matters, of course.

What I loved in particular was this story she included of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis forming a small group, The Inklings.

Many people are familiar with The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien and The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. Behind these legendary creative books and mythic worlds is a remarkable story of collaboration. These two writers met in the English department at Oxford University in the mid 1920’s, and discovered they shared an interest in writing mythic fiction and poetry. Lewis and Tolkien formed a small group with other colleagues called The Inklings. In sharing this story in his book, Group Genius, Keith Sawyer writes, “this was a pun that described them not only as writers but also as people who were searching with ‘vague or half-formed intimations and ideas.’”

The group met at a pub every Tuesday to talk about mythology and ideas. As trust in the group grew, they shared their writings. They took turns reading aloud and offered edits and critiques on one another’s work. Before this group, neither Tolkien nor Lewis had published their poems or mythic stories. The themes and ideas from The Inklings took shape within the writings of each man and made their way into the world in what are now widely popular books and movies.

Give Beth’s post(s) a good read. It’s part of the new story that many of us are inviting — multiple layers of collaboration and imagination together.

And heres to the creativity and courage for any of us with inklings.

At the Pace of Tea

This week has been a full week. Like most weeks are. Calls to be on. Meetings to join. Material to prepare. Much to fit into the space of a day, and often evening or early, early morning. I’m grateful that these are all with good people.

This week has been a week that I haven’t felt great also. Bit of an upset stomach. I’ve been telling people in my meetings and calls that I’m drinking a lot of tea. Soothing. Comforting. Feels a bit slowed down, in a kind way. I shared it with a few of my colleagues and friends, “I’m moving at the pace of tea.”

It feels like the norm of contemporary society is not the pace of tea. That’s for grannies, right. I love it that my Grandma was a tea-drinker. I have super fond memories as a kid dunking a cookie in an afternoon cup when staying with my grandparents over summers in Saskatchewan. The cup above is one of hers, given to me when she died last year.

The pace of tea isn’t the pace of coffee. Nor the pace of Red Bull. It’s not pressed to squeeze more into each moment than is physically imaginable. It is more patient. Like the feeling of cool sand on your feet on a hot summer day meant to be meandered at the beach. Tea for me is something to relax into.

One of my teachers (and friend and colleague) is Christina Baldwin. Her book The Seven Whispers: A Spiritual Practice for Times Like These is a beloved gem. It’s short. Clear. Inviting. Filled with story as Christina does so well. Feels like tea.

Christina includes as one of her whispers another reference to pace — move at the pace of guidance. “In a world of speed and distraction, pace of guidance invites us to combine the practices of measured movement and listening. Speed is some guy running through the airport shouting into a cell phone. Pace is going around the block with a three-year-old and noticing everything the child is noticing.”

Pace, whether of tea, or of guidance, is an essential skill to develop in times like these. And not just for weeks of feeling upset stomachs. In fact, just maybe, there’d be fewer societally upset stomachs with the invocation of tea a bit more often.

Everything is Not What it Seems

I’ve started reading a book recommended by my partner, Teresa Posakony. It is by Bruce Lipton and Steve Bhaerman called Spontaneous Evolution. The main theme is about society participating in evolution (evolving the way we evolve) by making a significant change in beliefs and behaviors. I met Bruce Lipton once — his presentation was full and intense. He knows a lot of stuff and weaves it quite fiercely to create bridges between science and matters of spirit.

Generally speaking, I find it delicious to crack open a new book. I love the introduction and I love the table of contents, and preamble, and preface — as ways to understand the narrative arc that the author is about to invite us to ride upon. A ride is coming — that is what I love. One that might tease and tumble my imagination.

In this book, Spontaneous Evolution, Chapter 1 is titled, “What if Everything We Know is Wrong!” Funny that I just noticed it is punctuated with an exclamation point, not a question mark. The authors aren’t asking if this is true. They are asserting it.

I find it exquisite when people take on this theme of “everything we know is wrong.” It’s the river under the river. For me, more often I speak it as “all is not what it seems.” Or even more accurately, that everything is incomplete because this fantastic set of symbols that we call words, could never express the fullness of what is — it’s a good system, but remains a reductive system.

It’s the description of the nature of reality that has so often felt off to me, rendering much of the discussion and action plans that we humans create, off as well. A key first step for working and living together as teams, or families, or communities, is to be willing and able to explore the underlaying story that supports our knowing and insights. One of my colleagues has been reminding me of the need for “round world” rather than “flat world” strategies.

There’s a story in this chapter by Lipton and Bhaerman that illustrates how our perception (and certainty) can trick us. And by us, I do mean all of us. It’s not whether we will be wrong that is the issue to me. Rather, it is whether we are willing to engage with self and others about the incompleteness of it.

“Gaze into the sky on a clear, dark, moonless night, and you will see thousands of pinholes of light — each one a massive, magnificent star in a Universe too large to imagine. Focus on one star and realize that it might no longer exist but may have burned out and collapsed into space rubble eons ago. But because the star was light-years away, illumination from its former existence is still visible, serving as a navigational guide for mariners.

Now, turn your gaze from the heavens to our less-than-heavenly Earth and ask: ‘Is it possible that we have been charting our course by a burned-out philosophical star? What if our belief system about life is wrong?'”

Good, right? Following a star that has already died. I love the reference.

I think that the most important disposition that I’ve been able to offer in working with groups is to, just for a moment, help them (and me) entertain the notion that we might not have it all figured out. Curiosity is the need — that’s what I tell them. Dislocation of certainty, even for a moment — this reawakens a fundamental human quality of evolving not just what we do, but how we are together.

The willingness to engage around such vulnerability of not knowing, and just maybe, not having it all figured out — that’s a game changer.