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Last week while I was in Toronto, I had the opportunity to spend an afternoon in St. James Park at Occupy Toronto. I found the experience to be very moving and I’ve been thinking about it a lot since.
What struck me first when I entered the park was the lengths to which people have gone to turn the park into an intentional community. One of the deepest values that was apparent immediately is the value of caring for each other and creating a safe and welcoming environment for everyone. The other value that’s clear is the value of volunteering whatever gifts you can bring for the benefit of the whole.
There is a food area where donated food is available free of charge, a free library where books are shared and free classes are taught by volunteers, a medical tent, a logistics tent, a recovery tent (for people in 12 step programs), a safe women’s area, a silent meditation area, a volunteer sign-up area, a town square where general assemblies take place twice a day, a music zone, and an information table for people who are new to the park. While I was there they were looking for volunteers to set up a children’s area. Everything is free and everyone is welcome.
Shortly after I arrived in the park, I discovered why it had been so quiet – participants were returning from a rousing protest march. They brought great energy and enthusiasm to an otherwise quiet space. Here’s a short video capturing some of the energy they brought with them:
The energy wasn’t all positive. Clearly there had been conflict on the march with one group wanting to march through the financial district and the rest of the group prefering to stick with the initial plan. Apparently someone had told the police that the group that wanted to go to the financial district was planning to incite violence. The people in that group insisted that it wasn’t true. As their voices raised in frustration, a few people stepped out of the crowd to offer them deep listening and a way to reframe their stories so that they could once again offer positive energy to the group.
The true test of a community is how they handle conflict, and though there is much to admire about the intentionality around the Occupy movement, they are not immune to the challenge of having various factions in their midst bringing different viewpoints and differing passions. Gather people with passion into the same space and at some point, you’re bound to experience conflict.
As soon as the marchers returned, the general assembly began in the town square. Young facilitators did their best to manage the energy in the large and passionate group. Using the human microphone (the speaker shouts their words, and then the group shouts them back so that more people can hear), they tried to give voice to all of the concerns and ideas as they arose. To increase people’s opportunity of being heard, they asked us all to break into circle groups to offer our personal ideas of what things should be done in the future. After the circle time, spokespersons from each group brought the offerings back into the larger group. Then, at the end of the meeting, a speaker’s list was formed, inviting anyone who still felt they had something important to say to add their name to the list.
The process wasn’t perfect, and it was clear that the facilitators were learning (and making up) the process as they went along. Those of us who have facilitated large and passionate groups know that it’s challenging to give voice to so many people, especially when there is conflict involved.
I would argue that those imperfections and efforts are what makes the movement beautiful and potentially powerful. No, the movement is not one of perfect clarity (as the critics continue to say). Each person brings a different desire and restlessness to the circle. But what is remarkable is that so many different voices are coming together to create circles, live in community, and share their questions, passions, ideas, and alternatives for the systems that have begun to enslave rather than serve us.
Whenever something new is emerging, we have to be willing to walk through chaos to get there. We have to have the patience to sit in the ambiguous spaces. We have to let the questions sit heavily on our hearts.
One of the speakers who stood up during the general assembly spoke the words that have resonated the most loudly for me since that afternoon. “People say that we are a leaderless movement,” she said. “I would suggest that instead we see ourselves as a leaderful movement. We must ALL see ourselves as leaders in this new journey we’re on.”
And THAT is the beauty of the Occupy movement. For the community (and movement) to succeed, each person has to step into personal leadership and offer their gifts into the circle. Those who have medical skills have to show up at the medical tent. Those who can teach meditation, have to show up in the meditation area to coach others. Those who are facilitators need to offer their skills to the general assembly. Those who are good at diffusing conflict need to step in and help where they can.
Each person brings his/her passion and ideas and a willingness to listen to the passion and ideas brought by others.
That’s wisdom that goes far beyond the Occupy movement and right into our lives. Whatever your gifts are, show up and offer them for the good of all people. And then listen and receive what others have brought.
YOU are a leader and you need to step into that role in order to serve the people who are waiting to be served. That’s the only way community can work.
It’s been another amazing trip. I met with a lot of interesting people, attended a workshop that is closely aligned with the work that most excites me, lined up some new work (which may result in another trip to Toronto soon), was treated to a reiki session by an amazing husband and wife team with gifted hands, built a website for a dear friend and mentor, walked a labyrinth, drove through the beautiful countryside alive with Fall colour, did some advance planning for an upcoming women’s gathering, sat in circle with some of the passionate people at Occupy Toronto, laughed harder than I have in a long time, and heard a lot of personal stories.
That last part is what fills me with the greatest happiness. Hearing the stories of what wants to emerge from people is at the heart of everything I do, whether it’s teaching people to write, helping them step into personal leadership, facilitating workshops, coaching individuals in transition, or writing for non-profits. That’s what brought me to Toronto and why I spent two days learning about narrative coaching with David Drake.
The stories that emerged this week were amazing, as they always are. I heard a story of escape from China and immigration to Canada. Another story of what it’s like to break new ground in a community as an inter-racial couple. A story of being a pioneer and doing work nobody has dreamed of before. A story of building a healing room and creating a labyrinth in the backyard to bring more spirituality into the world. Several stories of anger, frustration, and restlessness over faltering systems that no longer serve the people at the heart of them. More than one story full of the pain of shattered relationships. A story of what it’s like to leave a priestly calling for the emerging truth of a same sex relationship. A story of feeling the pull of the land and a calling to build a unique farm/spiritual centre/learning space. A story of the deep desire to bring a child into the world knowing what challenge that child will face having two fathers. A story of performing comedy in Barbados and emerging into a career in film. A story of the power of dream analysis. Several stories of the dreams and fears of building new businesses while following the longing of one’s heart. Many stories about the challenges of letting go of old limiting stories that don’t serve anymore. A story of a near-death experience in India and the resulting life change that’s emerging. Stories, stories, and more stories.
Each and every story enriched my story-gathering heart.
Sharing stories. Hosting stories. Sitting in circle and letting the stories weave into each other. THIS is my work in the world.
I am a listener. A harvester. A weaver. A host. A wanderer with a basket full of story threads that weave themselves into colourful tapestry.
It is that calling that has led me to something new and exciting. Together with my dear friend Desiree Adaway, another story-gatherer, I am launching something brand new called Global Listeners.
Desiree and I want to build a community of people who will be listeners for the stories emerging in this world. We want to help people learn to listen more effectively so that the stories can transform us. We want to help people become better leaders and change-makers through the power of listening. We want to invite people to join us on listening journeys to hear stories of other cultures.
Our mission is to enrich the world through listening.
To launch this new dream, we are hosting a free learning call on The Power of Deep and Soulful Listening. We invite you to join us next week for the call. Please sign up at the new site.
Whatever work you do in the world, whether you’re sweeping floors in a hospital, leading a large technology firm, teaching schoolchildren how to write, or driving a city bus, your work can be enriched by the power of listening.
At the beginning of every Creative Writing for Self Discovery class on Thursday evenings, after I ring the bell to welcome people into the circle, I read a poem. Usually it’s from a fairly serious, weighty poet like Mary Oliver or David Whyte. We don’t deconstruct the poem like we all used to do in high school English – we just sit with it for awhile and let it seep into us. Sometimes I read it twice. And then we share the way that the words may have pinched or soothed us.
Yesterday I thought it was time for a bit more whimsy and fun, and so I brought in my favourite Dr. Seuss book, Oh the Places You’ll Go! Earlier in the day, I’d spent a fair bit of time with the book, coming up with what I thought were some good writing exercises to use as a follow-up to the book. I was well prepared for a fun, engaging, imaginative class.
Before going to class, I read Bob Stilger’s post about a workshop he’d co-hosted in Zimbabwe. Bob wrote an honest critique of how he and the rest of the hosting team had run the kind of session they’d been hired to run but hadn’t done enough to respond to what needed to emerge in the room. “We did not work well with the needs and hopes present in the room,” he says.
Bob’s words made me wonder, “Am I doing enough to allow the needs and hopes in the room to emerge? Am I creating enough space for people’s stories to be told in the way that they need to tell them, rather than imposing my own style on them?”
This is, after all, why I teach this class in circle instead of a more traditional hierarchical structure. I don’t see myself as the expert in the room, transferring knowledge to my students like a mother bird dropping worms in hungry mouths. I see myself as a co-learner with them, exploring stories as a way to get to our deeper truths. In the words of George Bernard Shaw, “I’m not a teacher: only a fellow-traveler of whom you asked the way. I pointed ahead – ahead of myself as well as you.”
Yesterday, after reading Oh the Places You’ll Go!, but before launching into the well-planned writing exercises, I asked participants to share the writing they’d done in the week since we’d met. The assignment had been an exploration of personal voice and the passions and delights that are most easily communicated when one speaks in his/her most honest voice. One women shared a beautiful poem that began with words that were something like “my voice rises when I see someone fall.”
The second person to offer something up admitted that she was having a hard time sharing in class. At the first class, she’d openly shared a vulnerable and raw piece about loss and loneliness, but since then something had blocked her from sharing. She feared her writing was all going to the same dark places and she wasn’t sure of the validity and value of that for anyone other than herself.
At that moment, the circle proved its worth. We honoured her reluctance, we recognized her pain, we shared our own pain, and before long we’d entered a deeper place of conversation than we’d been in the past three classes. We talked about the universality of loneliness, and reflected back to Dr. Seuss’ words about the lonely place as one of the “places you’ll go”. We admitted the shame we felt when we’d been lonely in the middle of marriage or parenthood, or a gathering where everyone else is shiny and happy. We talked about the “slumps” and “waiting places” that Dr. Seuss so wisely defined for us.
And then we talked about how these stories connect us with each other and make us feel less alone. We discussed the value of writing these stories and sharing them in order to touch other people’s pain and walk the journey with them. We wrestled with the fine line a writer must walk between being personal and vulnerable, and yet being universal and not too self-absorbed.
Together, we took a deep dive into “the places you’ll go”.
At one point I glanced at the clock and realized that my well-planned exercises would never see the light of day. And when the tiny voice of regret whispered in my ear, I wished it well and sent it on its way. And when the slightly louder voice of my internal critic tried to insist that “you need to maintain order in this class. You need to share your expertise and exercises or people won’t get what they paid for,” I smiled, and then leaned in even closer to the person whose story was slowly and tentatively emerging.
In the end, we let the stories in the room (with a little help from Dr. Seuss) guide our adventure last night. We never got to the assignment, but it didn’t need to be done. We let the whimsy of Dr. Seuss take us from the not-so-good streets to the high heights, past the Bang-ups and Hang-ups, through the Slump and to a place where the streets are not marked. We raced across weirdish wild spaces, sat still in The Waiting Place, found the places where the Boom Bands are playing, let ourselves experience the lonely place where we met things that scare you right out of your pants, and in the end, tried to believe that we will succeed (98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed).
Throughout the course of the evening, we went to all the right places, even though none of them were the ones I’d carefully orchestrated.
The further I go down this teaching and leadership journey, the more I realize the value of the ambiguous spaces – the spaces where we let go of our plans, let go of certainty, let go of agendas, let go of “the way things have always been”, and open ourselves to possibility. It is in those spaces that true creativity can emerge. When we let ourselves (and the people we lead & teach) get a little lost, we can write deeper stories, ask deeper questions, and find deeper meaning.
It’s a scary place to go, and it’s hard to convince ourselves (and the people we’re with) that it’s the right place when we’re supposed to be “in charge”. Nobody likes to feel out of control. It’s scary for the leader and it’s scary for the people being lead. (I remember being reprimanded by former staff for letting meetings slip away from the agenda. There was fear of the unknown in those reprimands.)
And yet, if we want to go to deeper places, we have to be more comfortable with ambiguity and confusion. Rather than trying to enforce our own plans, we have to be willing to let the stories in the room shape what needs to be done. With caution and respect, and an intuitive sense of when it’s time to steer the ship back into safer harbour, we as leaders and teachers need to risk security for creativity. Otherwise, we’ll never leave the shallow water and we’ll never know what’s possible.
This greater comfort with ambiguity is, I believe, one of the gifts of feminine wisdom.
And now, for your inspiration, here’s John Lithgow reading Oh the Places You’ll Go!
This morning I was trying too hard to write a meaningful blog post. I kept getting stuck on something – writer’s block, boredom, restlessness, taking myself too seriously, self-doubt… whatever.
While I sat staring at my screen, a bird began to sing outside my kitchen window. It was an odd, random song with no beginning, no end, and no clear melody in the middle. It was much more random and covered a broader range of notes than any bird song I’d ever heard before. Captivated, I went to stand by the open window to listen. I couldn’t see the bird, so I have no idea what kind it was.
One thing I know for certain is that that bird loves to sing. She doesn’t care who’s listening, how she sounds, or whether there is any value in her song. She isn’t concerned about whether she’ll be able to sign with a record company or if anyone will show up for her concerts. She doesn’t even need her song to make sense or to fit into any musical category. She just sings.
I doubt whether that bird ever wrestles with singer’s block.
And so, in honour of that bird, I decided that on today’s blog post, I would just sing. Here are the little random bits of song that are on my heart today…
Song #1 – I continue to be in awe of the beautiful weather we’ve been having around here. Just now I went for a quick walk to the store (partly so that I could be outside to listen to the birds), and I could have done it without a jacket. I don’t know when we’ve enjoyed such consistently warm weather in the Fall, and I think the trees are loving it because they seem to be hanging onto their leaves longer. AND this follows an equally incredible summer.
Song #2 – I am completely in love with my Creative Writing for Self Discovery class on Thursday evenings. We sit in circle, we share stories, and we inspire and encourage each other. I want to do this for the rest of my life.
Song #3 – Speaking of stories and circles, Desiree Adaway and I are working on a secret project that is so exciting I’m just bursting to tell you about it. It’s the culmination of a few dreams that are just bursting to come true. We’ll share it soon… I promise.
Song #4 – Yesterday I was listening to a podcast that was recorded from somewhere in the Middle East, and in the background of the recording the Muslim call to prayer could be heard. I can hardly describe the longing that sound filled me with. Just like I did with the birdsong this morning, I had to stop what I was doing and just listen. I love the call to prayer and I love that the sound of it usually means that I’m in a country that is different from my own. Waking up to the call to prayer on the first morning in a new country, knowing I have adventure and new stories ahead of me, is one of my all time favourite moments EVER. I can hardly wait to relive it.
Song #5 – Speaking of travel, I leave for Toronto this weekend and, as you can imagine, that thought fills this wanderer with great joy. What gives me an extra dose of joy this time around is that this trip is happening largely because a very special person whom I’ve never met said “I love everything you write and I love the work you do. I think you need to be in Toronto for a workshop on narrative coaching and we’re going to make it happen.” And then she proceeded to make it happen. How cool is that?! I get to travel, be inspired by ideas that fit perfectly into the work I’m doing right now, meet interesting people, and explore some new ideas for how my work might link in with other people’s. Throw an extra little trill into my song right here, ’cause I’m bursting!
Song #6 – While I’m in Ontario next week, I get to spend some time in a special place with my friend and mentor Diane. She inspires me, encourages me, believes in me, and has promised me a Reiki session. AND she has a labyrinth in her back yard! Lucky me! Plus we’ll be meeting with a few other mutual friends and together we’re planning a women’s gathering in Ontario next year that will be an amazing thing to be part of.
Song #7 – I am making another pot of soup for lunch today. This time it’s brocolli and cheddar. There’s something about the Fall that just says SOUP for me. It’s the fourth pot I’ll make in about a week and a half.
Song #8 – In addition to my creative writing class and another writing class starting at the university, I’ll be teaching two workshops in the coming weeks. One is on Emotional Intelligence and the other is something I call the Mango Principles – on building communities rather than teams in our workplaces. (It’s based on a story of how the sharing of a mango once had a dramatic impact on an environment I was part of.) I’m especially excited about getting to do the Mango Principles again because it’s an idea I’m particularly fond of.
Song #9 – Speaking of community, I’ve been longing for a circle of creative entrepreneurial women in my city but I didn’t know where to find such a thing. I tried a few networking groups, but none of them felt right to me. Once I started talking about it, though, I soon discovered 4 other women looking for something similar. We had our first gathering in a funky bookstore coffee shop, and now we have plans to meet monthly. Lesson learned: if you can’t find the kind of community you need to support you, figure out how to create it.
Song #10 – I just realized that this post is all about my favourite things: story, circle, community, beauty, and wandering. Oh… and food. 🙂
Late breaking addition to the song list – Just now my friend Jo-anne phoned to arrange a chai date for this afternoon. She’s one of my favourite people to hang out with, so I have another happy moment to look forward to.
I’ve spent about 15 hours over the last 4 days typing 43 pages of Dutch names, birthdays, and wedding dates.
After painstakingly researching and compiling (with no computer literacy, I might add, just phone calls and reams of paper) eight generations of his family tree, my Mom’s husband hired me to type it all onto neat pages so that he can slip them into the plastic sleeves of his red duotang.
This is not my history and the names are unfamiliar, but I have found this exercise oddly enjoyable. For one thing, it’s a task I can do without a lot of thought, which gives me a little break from some of the over-thinking I do in many of my other tasks.
Though I don’t profess a lot of interest in genealogy, there is something comforting and rather grounding about these long branches of a family tree originating from one name a century and a half ago and then stretching out through the generations into the future.
As I type each name, I imagine it somehow mattering to each person that his or her name is there. Perhaps Anna feels a little twinge of happiness when her name appears on my computer screen, half a world away (most of the branches remain in their Dutch homeland). Perhaps Gerrit suddenly and inexplicably feels a sense of rootedness, and maybe even a longing to call a relative he hasn’t spoken to in a long time.
Perhaps I’ve been able to bless them somehow by attaching their names to this lineage through the ages.
As I read their names, I wonder about their stories. Did they like being part of this family tree? Did it matter to them? Or did they feel like misfits in a family where everyone else had a strong sense of belonging?
It’s the misfits I find myself most interested in. Not many layers of a person’s story show up on a family tree, but there are some that do. I wonder about those people who never had children and the branch ended with them. Did they want it that way or was it a matter of circumstances? How did they feel in a family surrounded by child-bearing relatives?
What about those who stayed single? Was that a happy choice or a lifelong trial? Did they find love in other kinds of relationships that didn’t conform to the family standards? Did they enjoy the solitude and freedom their singleness afforded?
And then I wonder about the secrets hidden behind the facts. Which people were living false lives, following the conventions of their culture? Which marriage was merely a cover for a repressed desire to love a person of the same gender? Which children were born out of a need to live up to expectations rather than a desire to be parents?
I wonder too about names. It’s striking how quickly a marriage wipes out a woman’s surname and changes that branch of the tree forever with a new name. When they marry outside the Dutch heritage, the family tree seems to imply that they cease to be Dutch. Does that matter? Is it something the new women’s movement should care about?
And then I find myself wondering about lineage in general. What kind of lineage matters? Do only the tendrils of our lives that connect us to our family history and culture matter? Or are there other lineages that we choose to be part of that make more difference – the lineages of our faith traditions, our vocations, our passions, our communities, our chosen families, and our spiritual practices? How much of life is a matter of our own choosing and how much is it a matter of simply accepting what comes?
I have no conclusions for this post, just a lot of meandering down the branches of a family tree that is not my own.
