Gentle Transitions

Birch Bay

I love a gentle transition. Or, should I say, a deliberate transition.

I was talking with a friend on the weekend. She asked me how I was getting from the airport to where I am staying. I explained I was taking light rail, followed by a bus. It would take me 75-90 minutes.

She then commented, “sometimes it’s nice to sit on a bus and stare out the window; it makes for a gentle transition, doesn’t it?” I agreed immediately. It’s a bit of time for the psyche to catch up to where the body is.

I’m in one of those transitions now. A different one. Riding the train from Everett, Washington to Vancouver, BC. It’s a three hour ride. With Wifi. With power outlets. With great views — the above is from Birch Bay, near which I saw hawks, heron, and bald eagles. And from Vancouver, this trip will involve a water taxi to get to my actual meeting space.

This is not an arrival, a transition that happens with immediateness. It’s not zero to 60 mph in 4 seconds. It’s got some gradualness to it. Slow moving train for some good staring.

 

On Powerful Questions

Yesterday, Aimee Samara and I began planning a session that we will host on powerful questions. We will offer it at Transforming the Way We Lead: And Art of Hosting Intensive in Portland, Oregon. There are a total of 50 of us gathering for three days together.

Aimee and I did not get as far as our final design. But where we left off is with a series of partner and four-person conversations that will invoke this learning among participants:

Curiosity — Asking good questions is definitely a skill. However, it is also a disposition. It comes from a curiosity, I believe. Curiosity about how things work. About what is seen and what is not seen. I’m reminded again of my grad school professor Bonner Ritchie who helped me to learn, “there is always more unseen that there is seen.” Or, “in every new truth, there is more that is not true about that than there is true about that.” Aimee and I will likely ask participants to share a story of a time when they felt intensely curious and ask them to describe what that was like.

Pocket Questions — These are the kind of questions that you can carry with you and use frequently, applied to personal, group, and system wide levels of scale. I asked Aimee what she considered as her pocket questions. “What is our purpose?” “Is there anything that you are afraid of?” I shared some of mine. “What if…?” “What could _____ also be?”

Your Key Question for this Event — It’s an important moment to identify, or get more clear, on what that question is. It’s a good harvest so as to shape what people will pay attention to for the remainder of the learning and time together.

I recall a story that I heard through my friend Toke Moeller many years ago. I imagine ending with this story today.

 

The power of questions

”You can eat an apple,” I said and gave him the green fruit.

It was as if he had seen an apple for the first time. First he just held it there and smelled it, but then he took a little bite.

”Mmmm,” he said and took a bigger bite.

”Did it taste good?” I asked.

He bowed deeply.

I wanted to know how an apple tastes the very first time you taste it, so I asked again, ”How did it taste?”

He bowed and bowed.

”Why do you bow?” I asked.

Mika bowed again.  It made me feel so confused, that I hurried to ask the question again. ”Why do you bow?”

Now it was him who became confused.  I think he did not know if he should bow again or just answer. ”Where I come from we always bow, when someone asks an interesting question,” he explained, ”and the deeper the question, the deeper we bow.”

That was the strangest thing I had heard in a long time.  I could not understand that a question was something to bow for. ”What do you do when you greet each other?”

”We always try to find something wise to ask?” he said.

”Why?”

First he bowed quickly, because I had asked another question and then he said, ”We try to ask a wise question to get the other person to bow”.

I was so impressed by the answer that I bowed as deeply as I could.

When I looked up Mika had put his finger in his mouth.  After a long time he took it out.

”Why did you bow?” he asked and looked insulted.

”Because you answered my question so wisely,” I said.

Now he said very loudly and clearly something that has followed me in my life ever since. ”An answer is nothing to bow for.  Even if an answer can sound ever so right, still you should not bow to it.”

I nodded briefly.  But I regretted it at once, because now Mika may think that I bowed to the answer he had just given.

”The one who bows shows respect”, Mika continued, ”You should never show respect for an answer.”

”Why not?”

”An answer is always the part of the road that is behind you.  Only questions point to the future.”

Those words were so wise, I thought, that I had to press my hands against my chin not to bow again…– Jostein Gaarder, 1996 in Norway

 

 

 

Check This One Out

I arrived yesterday to Portland, Oregon. My iPhone told me it was 88 degrees. On May 2nd. That’s hot. Beautiful. But a bit alarming too in this global shift of weather. I took my black sweater off immediately.

I was picked up from the airport by my friend and colleague Jessica Riehl. We know each other from meeting three years ago at an ALIA conference, at which we became rather instant friends. I love Jess’ way of living with questions in the world. And being able to laugh in them too. She’s someone that I appreciate for her facilitation instincts, her artful eye, and her great graphic illustration abilities.

Jessica and I are part of team hosting “Transforming the Way We Lead: An Art of Hosting Intensive” the next three days at Portland State University. I’m anticipating that gathering, 45 of us, to be a quality engagement with questions, laughter, and art. It’s a group of participants that care, of course.

In staying with Jessica, yesterday that meant picking up her three year-old Darwin from his preschool. It’s been a while since I’ve been with three year-olds for any length of time, but it was a phase that I loved with each of my three kids. Darwin is a sweet kid. He’s at that age of asking questions (many levels of why) and just enough mimicking that is adorable. One of the first things he showed me at his house was his Hot Wheels collection as I got down on the carpet with him. “Check this one out. Check this one out too.” He had a lot of them. Each time, I laughed. Each time I smiled with him and his beautiful innocence.

The other thing about Jess’ house, a two story with a high vaulted ceiling and a couple of ledges over the living room, is that Jess and her family have two cats. Buttercup and Yeezy (sp?). I’ve been enjoying watching these two cats come in and out of the room I’m staying in. Jess tells me it is “their room” — I really am the guest. One of the things that amazes me about my host cats is that they like to sit on the ledges. At the tope of the stairs, on a six inch wide ledge, with a 12ish foot fall, they seem so comfortable. I’m walking carefully by them, not wanting to unintentionally excite them or disturb them in a way that would make them fall. “It’s OK, we’ve got it,” they seem to say back to me reassuringly.

When I imagine my way into today, first designing with our team, and then hosting the group the remainder of the week, it’s clear to me that I hope for the kind of sweetness that I see in Darwin and the kind of confidence I see in these cats, Buttercup and Yeezy. What’s crazy is that I believe this is totally possible. Sweetness and confidence on ledges. It’s just that the group will likely be less about Hot Wheels and more about leadership. And, well, there are always ledges in leadership. But maybe they just don’t need to be feared.

Cumulative Blame

Most of us know a bit about cumulation. It is the building up of something that gives it more strength or volume that if it had been left alone or ignored. Laundry, if left undone for a month, is no longer a simple load. Weeding the garden once a year is, well, likely to be a garden of weeds rather than vegetables in my area.

I’ve been in many environments in which there appears to be a cumulative blame. It hasn’t been easy to put my finger on it, but I recently got a new insight to understand this. It’s not regular blame for one instance or another. It’s not isolated blame. It’s cumulative in that the pile of “perceived wrongs” is so high that blame becomes the operating system. It’s harsh, right. And needs interruption.

This is one of the reasons that I like Appreciative Inquiry as a methodology and way of being. Appreciative Inquiry is one of the best ways I know to breakthrough the harshness that is blame. When shaped with the right question, it can move that operating system from blame to learning. That’s the essential interruption that helps a group reclaim what it is all about. I use questions like, “What are you learning about what is difficult here?” “What are you learning about yourself in this challenging time?”

Brene Brown, though I don’t know her personally, has been a kind of teacher for me about blame. In one of her talks she tells a great story that concludes, “Blame is simply discharge of discomfort and pain.”

And there is a lot of pain in many systems today, isn’t there. Pain of complexity. Pain of being overworked. Pain of shortage of funding. Pain of management systems that command and control. Pain of needing to disassociate work from life. Pain of feeling you shouldn’t take a day off, even though you are sick. Pain of larger systems in collapse. That can be a big list.

I’ve written before about not blaming each other for complexity. That kind of not blaming, that not contributing to a cumulative blame, requires discipline. I continue to learn about this.

Another teacher and friend, Margaret Wheatley once shared three things about being in complexity that have remained with me. First, stay awake. Second, dwell in complexity. Third, pay exquisite attention to relationships. Again, nothing about blame there. Just staying awake and in relationship. Even to discomfort. So that weeding the garden, which does need to happen, is twenty minutes here and there rather than a whole weekend.