Human to Human is a daily blog. It’s journalling and learning in public, Monday through Thursday, in which I post current learnings (taking sporadic weeks off to write longer pieces or to rest). Posts are 300-500 words, often with photos, intended to be read in five minutes and inspire reflection, individually and communally, on varied aspects of participative leadership practices, insights, and human to human depth.

The Pace of Clarity

I have long appreciated the distinction between “pace” and “speed.”

In her book, The Seven Whispers, Christina Baldwin offers a distinction that most moved me 18 years ago. As I remember it, “Speed,” she says, “is last-minute running through the airport to get to your gate before your flight departs. It’s leaping over rows of chairs and dodging people.”

Christina continues, “Pace is holding a toddler’s hand walking through the neighborhood. It’s more stopping than it is walking. The toddler has you responding to questions about bugs, weeds, pieces of litter, birds.”

Pace is natural. Speed is imposed.

We love speed, don’t we? Revering of speed has been enculturated into most of us. Yet, “It’s not all speed and efficiency.” That’s what my friend Meg Wheatley shared so often in her work with leaders defaulted into a mechanical views and disciplines of life lived. That’s what my son’s little Terrier Dog reminds me when we walk. It’s less of a walk. It’s more of a stop-to-sniff, that turns ten minutes into twenty-five.

And then there is all the stuff of slogans — “the speed of change, and the speed of life.” Again, a lot of imposed stuff intended to motivate as it does.

Now, me, back to pace, I’ve become more interested in the pace of clarity. The kind of clarity that aligns with purpose. The kind of clarity that brings feeling and joy back to the many kinds of life-endeavors we do, solo or in community. I’m interested in the kind of clarity that weaves mystery and multiplicity, that honors many mixes of diversity.

And the thing about clarity’s pace is that it can be slow or fast. It seems to me that pace of clarity can happen in an instant, in a surrender. Like the way that the lake freezes as a whole, edge to edge at just the right moment of winter. Like the way that intuition pops voice to brain and body knowing. Like the way that clouds part, leaving open sky.

It also seems to me that sometimes the pace of clarity is very slow. Like the way that teams build their patience muscles in return meetings together about things that don’t have finish lines. Like the way that complexity requires dwelling with, waiting for something to emerge naturally, rather that being force-fertilized. Like the way that geography evolves to patterns through the slow touch of wind and water.

Clarity is what moves an individual. Clarity is what moves a group of people. Or “enough clarity.” Clarity is an absolute, sometimes. But often it isn’t. It’s only knowing the next step in what will eventually be many steps. Clarity has values in it, that remain true across changing circumstance.

It’s not the shallow of clarity that compels me. It’s not faster, faster, faster so as to exhaustedly move on to the next thing. It’s the depth of clarity that compels me, the remembered joy of that toddler walk that became the surprise highlight and fulfillment of the week.

May there be a clarity that guides and that we remember to revere together.


Audible tells me in it’s year-end report that my most-listened-to book of 2022 was the above, Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse.

I’m not surprised. It’s been both a multiple listen and a physical read. I love the narrative of spiritual coming of age — an important thread for me in my last 45 years of living.

I also love the theme of spiritual awakening, particularly when it is oriented through the self. My overall translation of that is an awakening that values the deeply inner.

Says the character Siddhartha, at one stage of his becoming…

“Yes, he thought, breathing deeply, I will no longer try to escape from Siddhartha. I will no longer devote my thoughts to Atman and the sorrows of the world. I will no longer mutilate and destroy myself in order to find a secret behind the ruins. I will not longer study Yoga-Veda, Atharva-Veda, or asceticism, or any other teachings. I will learn from myself, be my own pupil; I will learn from myself the secret of Siddhartha.”

It is an important moment, I believe, when any of us turn to ourselves as the materials to be most intimate with.

I don’t the read the above as rejection of the many outer or communal resources — that is how most of us seem to populate our learnings. I do read it as a keen remembering to take the deeply inner journey, and know it for its richness, and to be held in such journey, and witnessed.

May there be wisdom found for any of us, in these deep journeys of becoming.

Courage & Toleration

It is the 1800s German Philosopher and Poet, Friedrich Nietzsche, that I know to have spoken, “No artist tolerates reality.”


For, it seems to me, artistry challenges the edges or reality. It has the energy to expand, even if momentary. It has the invitation to shift lens through which to see and question reality. It invites the medium of feeling, a knowing through other means not restricted to cognition. Artistry, from someone else or from ourselves, invites wonder, so as to be in a life more fully.


Recently I wrote, in the form of poetry, an artistry that helps me to wonder.


a life 

to life

So here’s to the not forgotten courage, the surrender, and the artistry of living lives as we do, in jobs as we do, in communities as we do, and in moments of listening to artistry nudging our perceptions, and toleration, of what is the real that we give ourselves to.

The Eyes of Trees

From A Recent Walk, Lindon, Utah

It’s a regular walk for me. And a rain-fed stream. And this tree that has me thinking owls. With delight.

I am grateful
for people doing their good in the world.

I am grateful
for people with passion.

I am grateful 
for people with play.

I am grateful
for people exploring and leading with their being.

This life, my life, calls
for a wonderful intersectionality
and the eyes of trees that see it all.