Category: General Learning

I admit that I don’t always know how dialogue processes land in a group. I want them to go well, of course. I want people to feel engaged. Both in relationship and in a kind of access to stories and information that they don’t have by themselves. I want there to be several ahas! It’s just hard to tell sometimes, when I am hosting the process and not able participating directly in the table conversations.

At a recent consultation that I co-hosted with my partner, Teresa Posakony, and Rev. Myron Wingfield, Associate General Secretary of the General Board of Higher Education for the United Methodist Church, I had this feeling. What was happening in the room? Were they learning? Were they getting beyond a “nice” interaction together? Could they relax themselves into a participative format together, trusting that it would help?

These post event reflections from President Lalleen Rector, President of Garrett Evangelical Theological Seminary helped reality check this for me. I love the words, who they came from, and the context they set for ongoing patterns of dialogue. The first paragraphs of Lalleen’s reflections are below. The full post is here on The President’s Blog on the Garrett website.

I have just returned from a consultation in San Diego on theological education hosted by the United Methodist General Board of Higher Education and Ministry.  About 50 persons were invited representing an array of constituencies inside and outside United Methodism: bishops, faculty, pastors, GBHEM staff, deans and presidents of seminaries and divinity schools, leaders of other denominations and related institutions. 

Our meeting format was led by two consultants committed to a “living systems” approach in which much care was given to being present, to checking in about how we had arrived, to what we were being called and invited into, to the concerns we brought, to deep listening to ourselves and others, to an incredible trust in process, and to the power of dialogue that would move us to meaningfully consider action.  No doubt some wondered about whether or not such a process could eventuate into anything but more talk that goes nowhere.  To be honest, at this moment it is too soon to know what will come of our investment.  

It was a challenge to be present in the midst of the busyness that surrounds our lives and that feels so demanding.  However, I was committed to do so believing that conversation and dialogue are the basis upon which we begin to understand each other and at the heart of which lies something sacred.  Such dialogue at times requires courage and perseverance and it is easier to turn away from than to engage.  But perhaps it is the best hope we have for dealing with difference and for finding ways to truly collaborate toward a common good bigger than any of our personal or institutional agendas.  I left the consultation reminded of a conviction I experienced at 12, i.e., that the process of listening, really listening, and of being listened to has transformative impact and embodies what I can now name as an incarnation of God’s grace among us.

There is a power in open dialogue. I’m grateful to people like Lalleen, Myron, and others present at this consultation that hold steady in such a narrative that transforms who we are and what we do together.

At the recent Art of Hosting event in Olympia, Washington, one of the teams I coached was those interested in harvesting. Over the course of three days, a group of about ten of us gathered four times to explore, define, discuss, imagine, and offer several aspects of harvesting.

I offered the above to initially frame the huddles. That there are layers of harvest (in red, content, process, relationship, and field). That there are some principles and practices (in green, including, to help be heard in a new way, that you can’t tell it all, that harvest is an offering of meaning making).

Over the course of meeting, I suggested three primary guidelines for the group to offer a variety of harvests: 1) that it offer an added layer of meaning-making, 2) that it be portable, something that others could take with them, and 3) that it be interesting to them personally.

Check these:

Photos from Jessica Riehl

Collage Drawing from Katie Hatam

Art of Hosting, a dialogue poem from Betsy Hale

Lucky 13 List of Learning from Kate Tavender

What’s in a Story Visual Mapping from Megan…

Video Recording (26 minutes), What’s In a Story from Harold Shinshato. This was a session I taught on key elements to hold the story of participative leadership. The video includes participant contributions. Password is AOPLOLY.

Bound To Hear One Good Thing, a dialogue poem from me.

I am generally an early morning riser. I feel fresh. So much more than the evening before, when I typically fall asleep very quickly into my pillow. My brain and spirit are alert in the morning. Ideas come to me. Ideas of what I want to write. Ideas of what I want to do with my kids. Ideas for projects that I’m working on or want to begin. The morning feels like bonus time. A calm before the rest of the world wakes and begins to fill the day with stories, deadlines, and urgencies.

In the morning, I typically spend a bit of time in meditation. Twenty minutes. Preferably sitting with my legs crossed (I don’t know why this really matters, but my meditations are better when I do this). Preferably with my back well supported. I set a timer. With my hands folded on my lap, I begin to breath. I try to make my breaths as long and slow as possible (again, I don’t really know why, but it just feels right). Often, I count slowly on the in-breath and on the out-breath. 1…2…3…4…5…6. A slow count. One per second, it feels like. Then a pause. Then on the out-breath, 1…2…3…4…5…6, and another pause. Once I get started, my counts tend to grow. Up to 12 or so. It is close to two breaths per minute when going really well.

What I notice in this early morning breathing, is that there is a point at which I feel I am no longer “breathing,” but rather, “being breathed.” No, I have not left my body. That is not the experience that I have. But I do feel like I am in sync with something larger than myself. That “larger than self” is breathing me. When this happens, I feel like something important is going on. That I have reached enough of a stillness to surrender to a larger “everything-is-connected-entity.” Call it the universe. Call it the divine. Call it God. I don’t know what to call it. I just know I like it, and I feel very alive with it.

There is an image that comes to mind that helps me understand this. It is of starlings flying together. I learned a new word with colleagues last weekend to describe the way that starlings move, flock, twist, and turn. Murmurations (three minute video – enjoy). I’m aware that there are some principles for flocking that simplify what we see as complex behavior. However, in the starling flock, we tend to pay attention to the flock, not the individual bird. The flock looks like it is flying the individual bird. Maybe it is play. Maybe it is starling art or exercise. The result, what we see, is truly amazing. Just as it is, I would say, “to be breathed.” I wonder what it would take to see this “being breathed” in a collection of people, like we see the starling flock flying the individual bird?

I have been teaching lately that presence is a core competency. The experience of being breathed, the practice of being breathed, seems to develop that competency very well.

Oh, how I love the early morning.

I love this post (thank you Margaret Wheatley) from Omid Safi, Professor at Duke University. The entire post is here.

As one who studies change from a living systems perspective, this insight into “death that makes way for what is already there” is rather compelling.

“Leaves are usually green because of chlorophyll. It is chlorophyll that gives leaves their distinctive green color, and it is (along with sunshine) the key ingredient in the magical, life-producing process of photosynthesis.

The hidden secret of fall: the leaves don’t actually “turn” colors. With the winter season coming, and the process of photosynthesis being without the key ingredients of warmth and sunshine, trees begin to break down chlorophyll. With the “green” gone, the other colors that have been there all along — the magical reds, golds, and oranges — begin to express themselves.

That’s the secret: there is no turning, no changing. There’s only the death of what has been masking the colors inside. The beauty has been there all along. And we as human beings are like this. Each one of us contains hidden jewels inside.”

Photo Credit: Stanley Zimney License: Flickr (CC BY-NC 2.0).