Author: Tenneson Woolf

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).

I think of “ambient” as a term that references the state of the surrounding environment. I think of “ambient music” to connote what is playing in the background. It has a soothing or relaxing quality as a descriptor. I think of “ambient lighting” as a kind of diffused lighting. It’s not one brilliant lamp. It is the light that permeates the room, blends with other lights, and even bends round corners to integrate spaces.

Thanks Kinde Nebeker for naming “ambient togetherness” in a phone call yesterday. Our context was talking about relationships and a quality of being together. The comfort of being in the same room with another, yet at the same time not really needing to say or do anything. The ambient quality is just there adding to the overall experience. Like the music. Like the bending light.

Shifting now to my profession as a facilitator of many layers of human engagement, “ambient togetherness” strikes me as being immediately appetizing and helpful. I spend much of my time trying to create the conditions for groups of people to be in meaningful dialogue and connection together. Sometimes that is arranging a physical space with chairs in a circle or at small tables. Sometimes that is in the deliberate sequencing of important questions that I will ask them to explore. And sometimes, that is in the deliberate kind of emptiness, or pauses that I will invite people to dwell in.

In the best of that work, I believe that people feel a deep appreciation for a shared experience. Some might call it the “spirit” of the work. Some might call it the “energetic field” of the group together. Either work. Maybe this “ambient togetherness” too. It is the sensation of ease in being together, the letting down of guards, the freeing of inhibitions to simply be working well together and thinking well together. It is the aha sensation of feeling that being part of the group is feeding a stronger experience individually and collectively. The magic. The special sauce. That which makes the work that we do, really satisfying. Or even, oh my, the OKness of not doing or saying anything together — just knowing that it is good.

Permeates the room. Blends together. Integrates spaces. Yup, imagine ambient togetherness as a core aspect of strategy. I like it.