Today someone paid a real compliment to my work.
They said:
"I felt heard by you.
But more importantly, I felt heard by myself."
Wednesday, 20 May 2015
Tuesday, 19 May 2015
GETTING IT OFF MY CHESS
There are people I cannot beat at chess. Many of those.
There are people who I do beat at chess. A few of those.
And then there are people I can beat at chess, but choose not to. They require the most thought.
Give me the grace and wisdom to know the difference.
There are people who I do beat at chess. A few of those.
And then there are people I can beat at chess, but choose not to. They require the most thought.
Give me the grace and wisdom to know the difference.
Monday, 18 May 2015
MAVERICK
Along the Berry road, quite a few bystanders have called out "maverick" as I passed.
I had taken this as a not too dreadful insult, much as if I had heard the word eccentric muttered as I passed on a recumbent cycle.
Rather undeniable, if not positively welcome.
But now I've checked the etymology.
Back in the 19th century a Texas ranch owner either couldn't be bothered, or neglected to brand his cattle. His name? Samuel Maverick. A maverick became a term to describe cattle with no one's brand on their back.
Now, then, it is clearly a compliment.
Long may I stray beyond enclosure. Long may I evade another's ownership. Long may the branding iron be withheld from my hide.
I had taken this as a not too dreadful insult, much as if I had heard the word eccentric muttered as I passed on a recumbent cycle.
Rather undeniable, if not positively welcome.
But now I've checked the etymology.
Back in the 19th century a Texas ranch owner either couldn't be bothered, or neglected to brand his cattle. His name? Samuel Maverick. A maverick became a term to describe cattle with no one's brand on their back.
Now, then, it is clearly a compliment.
Long may I stray beyond enclosure. Long may I evade another's ownership. Long may the branding iron be withheld from my hide.
SOME FEEDBACK ON FEEDBACK
What makes feedback safe enough to accept?
It is interesting how many euphemisms there are around giving feedback to other people. Constructive feedback. Developmental feedback. Growth feedback. I've heard it called a number of things. Giving developmental feedback sounds more respectable than giving criticism. But criticism is what we mean. Indeed, that's exactly why we euphemise it.
My experience of criticism is this. It triggers at some level a fight / flight response. That's what it does in me, anyway. I'm a mature recipient, and I can even appreciate that the intention of the giver might be deeply honourable. Yet even small criticisms bring back a Proustian rush of the stern parent or the schoolroom. I can feel it happening, even if I can supress its overt display. In fact, at a microbiological level, I doubt I can supress it. The fight/flight response means largely one thing. There will be a resistance to what is said.
I was in an environment recently where the idea was, it was "safe" to give and receive feedback. Yet the same rushes occurred. So, presumably, within me, at least, I was just pretending that it was safe.
I notice, too, that in group settings, there can be a rush to give feedback. We can't wait to get our six penn'orth in.
How, then, to construct a safe feedback environment - one which raises awareness, yet avoids the fight / flight response which will create resistance to learning?
In the past, I have worked with the skill of noticing. I noticed this. I noticed that. I noticed that when you started speaking you raised your left hand. I noticed you burped mid way through. I noticed that your input took 47 minutes.
Noticing is factual. It is not that in noticing we notice something good or bad. That isn't noticing. It is judging. It is criticism or praise. Noticing is exact and behavioural without judgement. But, in a group, it's a hard thing to get to, a hard skill to employ, and needs strict supervision to get there. It's as though judgement is a group dynamics lodestone.
What of praise? That, too, gets euphemised, as though, especially in "professional" settings, we are embarrassed to admit to it. But I find, in myself, my inner child drinks it. And I've rarely found anyone I have given it to appear to resist. Sure, there have been verbal responses reclaiming modesty. But I have never felt it hasn't gone in.
Recently, on a course, an acquaintance referred to how we deal with children stumbling as they learn to walk. We pick them up, dust them down, praise them, and let them try again, praising each attempt. The course was full of feedback.
If one way of bringing safety to feedback is the art or science of noticing, maybe another is to limit feedback only to praise. I sense most managers, trainers and leaders would find this challenging indeed. But I'm not at all sure it wouldn't be their people's best growth medium.
It is interesting how many euphemisms there are around giving feedback to other people. Constructive feedback. Developmental feedback. Growth feedback. I've heard it called a number of things. Giving developmental feedback sounds more respectable than giving criticism. But criticism is what we mean. Indeed, that's exactly why we euphemise it.
My experience of criticism is this. It triggers at some level a fight / flight response. That's what it does in me, anyway. I'm a mature recipient, and I can even appreciate that the intention of the giver might be deeply honourable. Yet even small criticisms bring back a Proustian rush of the stern parent or the schoolroom. I can feel it happening, even if I can supress its overt display. In fact, at a microbiological level, I doubt I can supress it. The fight/flight response means largely one thing. There will be a resistance to what is said.
I was in an environment recently where the idea was, it was "safe" to give and receive feedback. Yet the same rushes occurred. So, presumably, within me, at least, I was just pretending that it was safe.
I notice, too, that in group settings, there can be a rush to give feedback. We can't wait to get our six penn'orth in.
How, then, to construct a safe feedback environment - one which raises awareness, yet avoids the fight / flight response which will create resistance to learning?
In the past, I have worked with the skill of noticing. I noticed this. I noticed that. I noticed that when you started speaking you raised your left hand. I noticed you burped mid way through. I noticed that your input took 47 minutes.
Noticing is factual. It is not that in noticing we notice something good or bad. That isn't noticing. It is judging. It is criticism or praise. Noticing is exact and behavioural without judgement. But, in a group, it's a hard thing to get to, a hard skill to employ, and needs strict supervision to get there. It's as though judgement is a group dynamics lodestone.
What of praise? That, too, gets euphemised, as though, especially in "professional" settings, we are embarrassed to admit to it. But I find, in myself, my inner child drinks it. And I've rarely found anyone I have given it to appear to resist. Sure, there have been verbal responses reclaiming modesty. But I have never felt it hasn't gone in.
Recently, on a course, an acquaintance referred to how we deal with children stumbling as they learn to walk. We pick them up, dust them down, praise them, and let them try again, praising each attempt. The course was full of feedback.
If one way of bringing safety to feedback is the art or science of noticing, maybe another is to limit feedback only to praise. I sense most managers, trainers and leaders would find this challenging indeed. But I'm not at all sure it wouldn't be their people's best growth medium.
Tuesday, 5 May 2015
UGLY IS AS UGLY DOES
On a deep, perhaps unfathomable, level we find a link between emotions in others and their aesthetic.
Eckhard Hess tested this, by showing subjects apparently identical pictures of young women. Which, he asked, was preferred, A or B?
There was a catch. The pictures weren't quite identical. Hess had manipulated them so that the pupils of the woman in picture A had been slightly enlarged to appear dilated.
Guess what? The subjects overwhelmingly preferred picture A.
The preference was created because the woman in picture A was, apparently, exhibiting love. More than once in my life, I have fallen prey to "come to bed" eyes. The same thing as on show here.
What's also striking is that some other emotions are reported with a wholly different aesthetic. "Ugly scenes" normally refer to violence and anger, and is an oft used cliché to describe this.
Be warned, therefore. If you want to be beautiful, act beautiful, think beautiful, feel and appreciate the beauty of others. This seems to be the implicit message.
For guidance, beautiful = loving, kind, compassionate, caring.
Ugly = hating, unkind, merciless, uncaring.
Worth thinking about!
Eckhard Hess tested this, by showing subjects apparently identical pictures of young women. Which, he asked, was preferred, A or B?
There was a catch. The pictures weren't quite identical. Hess had manipulated them so that the pupils of the woman in picture A had been slightly enlarged to appear dilated.
Guess what? The subjects overwhelmingly preferred picture A.
The preference was created because the woman in picture A was, apparently, exhibiting love. More than once in my life, I have fallen prey to "come to bed" eyes. The same thing as on show here.
What's also striking is that some other emotions are reported with a wholly different aesthetic. "Ugly scenes" normally refer to violence and anger, and is an oft used cliché to describe this.
Be warned, therefore. If you want to be beautiful, act beautiful, think beautiful, feel and appreciate the beauty of others. This seems to be the implicit message.
For guidance, beautiful = loving, kind, compassionate, caring.
Ugly = hating, unkind, merciless, uncaring.
Worth thinking about!
Monday, 4 May 2015
THE MIDAS TOUCH
Amongst the boats berthed in the same haven as CYLESTA is one christened MIDAS TOUCH. It is, predictably, an ostentatious motor cruiser. I can only assume that the owners have not read much classical mythology. I smile each time I see it.
It has come to my mind this weekend, alongside the Fight of the Century, a much longed for welterweight contest between Manny Pacquiao and the world's highest paid sportsman, Floyd Mayweather Jr.
My son, George, who knows a thing or two about the ways of the ring, predicted a Mayweather victory on points, the fight going the whole twelve round distance. Manny is a front foot southpaw, with a direct, aggressive, attacking style. All heart, and a lot of energy. Skill of course, too. Floyd is a cold, adaptive slippery boxer, a supreme technician, clinical in his reading of his opponents' style, and as much concerned to stay away from punishment as to give it out.
I had my money on Manny, which was as much an act of reverent hope, than of cold prediction. I lost my money.
The fight went much as George had predicted. As a spectacle, it was disappointing, and if I'd paid the extortionate pay per view, I'd have felt let down. Mind you, I didn't see the undercard, where, perhaps, spectator value was delivered. Floyd skipped off Manny, who advanced constantly across the centre of the ring, only to find that the fighter he thought he had on the ropes was a ghost, his slippery brown body melting away to one side or the other in a master class of slipping and feinting. Throughout the entire first ten rounds, as far as I could see, Floyd used an armoury of punches which consisted only of two. A left jab, some inches longer than Pacquiao's, deployed with no apparent energy greater than was needed to keep the Filipino tornado at bay. Sometimes the jab was more a wave than a punch. A gentle patting of the air before Manny's nose. The other weapon was the right cross, used like an occasional detergent to clear a stain. Unless you looked very closely, you couldn't fathom how Floyd was scoring, and how Manny wasn't. But Floyd's jabs landed. Manny's energetic combos largely missed their target. Gradually, jab by jab, Floyd at first stayed on terms, then pulled ahead against a wearied Pacquiao.
For ten rounds, Floyd was backed up against the ropes, dancing away from shots around the edge of the ring. But there was no dope a rope end to this. The careful eking out of effort extended even into rounds eleven and twelve, by which time even the supremely fit Manny was sagging. So consummately professional was this, that before the final round, there was even a brotherly hug between the two. Floyd's detachment killed Manny's passion dead. Neutered it. Used it.
The two men and their differences made for a fascinating contest. A fascination that, if not equally felt during the fight, raised passions before and after it. For they are opposites, not only in their fighting styles, but in their characters.
Manny is a hero. He has a plurality to his interests, and a generosity and levity which make him endearing. In an interview before the fight, he told his fans not to worry, but to relax. After all, he said, it's me in the ring, not you. He smiles readily. He is himself very relaxed. Though wealthy, powerful and influential, he uses his influence as a lawmaker, politician and philanthropist within his homeland. Coming from very humble beginnings, he has made good, and, if we are to believe the image, does good.
Floyd, on the other hand, has made something else of himself. He has enormous wealth, but, as far as we know, closely protected for his own flamboyant materialistic use. He has some ninety cars, amongst them a predictable stable of Ferraris, Bugattis and Rollers. He has coined Money as his nickname. He has made a huge business by being a bling villain. He backs this with an unfriendly public image, and a credible, though minor league, criminal CV. Even his choice of crime, wife beating, seems calculated to attract odium.
This is where boxing meets Hollywood. In this territory, one needs to tread with extreme care. Are we to believe either of the images displayed in front of us, or are they both crafted with care by image makers keen to simplify narratives down to good and evil. Manny and Floyd would not be the first boxers given this kind of makeover. Boxers, often not notoriously smart young men, are moulded by very smart impresarios. It's an old story.
But in Manny's case, there is an endemic innocence which really does help you believe in him. A clear and sparkling directness to his eyes, which attracts and holds you. And there is a bank of evidence that he transcends boxing, and uses it for good, much as Ali did. Indeed, there's an argument for Manny as The Greatest. Like Ali, not purely because of his remarkable achievements within the ring.
Floyd won. But did he? Doubt remains on the richness of Floyd's life. He has the money, the medals, the belts, and an empire of associated bling. But is that all there is to it? Is his quest, in contrast to Manny's, purely a multi storey edifice of ego? An empty building? I can't help but imagine Floyd in his 22,000 square feet mansion, all alone, in his silly oversized bling baseball hat. Alone.
Even if I am as suckered into simplicity, as Manny was suckered by his own attacking style in the ring, I cannot help but reflect on what messages for humanity this fight has. Is it that endeavour is glorified solely by the bling it buys? Is money or winning really everything? Or, as I'd want to believe, is money a kind of trivia, with other values the true measures of a life well lived, a winning beyond winning?
I see MIDAS TOUCH, inevitably painted on the stern of the boat in gold. Again, I greet it with a wry smile. And a little sadness.
It has come to my mind this weekend, alongside the Fight of the Century, a much longed for welterweight contest between Manny Pacquiao and the world's highest paid sportsman, Floyd Mayweather Jr.
My son, George, who knows a thing or two about the ways of the ring, predicted a Mayweather victory on points, the fight going the whole twelve round distance. Manny is a front foot southpaw, with a direct, aggressive, attacking style. All heart, and a lot of energy. Skill of course, too. Floyd is a cold, adaptive slippery boxer, a supreme technician, clinical in his reading of his opponents' style, and as much concerned to stay away from punishment as to give it out.
I had my money on Manny, which was as much an act of reverent hope, than of cold prediction. I lost my money.
The fight went much as George had predicted. As a spectacle, it was disappointing, and if I'd paid the extortionate pay per view, I'd have felt let down. Mind you, I didn't see the undercard, where, perhaps, spectator value was delivered. Floyd skipped off Manny, who advanced constantly across the centre of the ring, only to find that the fighter he thought he had on the ropes was a ghost, his slippery brown body melting away to one side or the other in a master class of slipping and feinting. Throughout the entire first ten rounds, as far as I could see, Floyd used an armoury of punches which consisted only of two. A left jab, some inches longer than Pacquiao's, deployed with no apparent energy greater than was needed to keep the Filipino tornado at bay. Sometimes the jab was more a wave than a punch. A gentle patting of the air before Manny's nose. The other weapon was the right cross, used like an occasional detergent to clear a stain. Unless you looked very closely, you couldn't fathom how Floyd was scoring, and how Manny wasn't. But Floyd's jabs landed. Manny's energetic combos largely missed their target. Gradually, jab by jab, Floyd at first stayed on terms, then pulled ahead against a wearied Pacquiao.
For ten rounds, Floyd was backed up against the ropes, dancing away from shots around the edge of the ring. But there was no dope a rope end to this. The careful eking out of effort extended even into rounds eleven and twelve, by which time even the supremely fit Manny was sagging. So consummately professional was this, that before the final round, there was even a brotherly hug between the two. Floyd's detachment killed Manny's passion dead. Neutered it. Used it.
The two men and their differences made for a fascinating contest. A fascination that, if not equally felt during the fight, raised passions before and after it. For they are opposites, not only in their fighting styles, but in their characters.
Manny is a hero. He has a plurality to his interests, and a generosity and levity which make him endearing. In an interview before the fight, he told his fans not to worry, but to relax. After all, he said, it's me in the ring, not you. He smiles readily. He is himself very relaxed. Though wealthy, powerful and influential, he uses his influence as a lawmaker, politician and philanthropist within his homeland. Coming from very humble beginnings, he has made good, and, if we are to believe the image, does good.
Floyd, on the other hand, has made something else of himself. He has enormous wealth, but, as far as we know, closely protected for his own flamboyant materialistic use. He has some ninety cars, amongst them a predictable stable of Ferraris, Bugattis and Rollers. He has coined Money as his nickname. He has made a huge business by being a bling villain. He backs this with an unfriendly public image, and a credible, though minor league, criminal CV. Even his choice of crime, wife beating, seems calculated to attract odium.
This is where boxing meets Hollywood. In this territory, one needs to tread with extreme care. Are we to believe either of the images displayed in front of us, or are they both crafted with care by image makers keen to simplify narratives down to good and evil. Manny and Floyd would not be the first boxers given this kind of makeover. Boxers, often not notoriously smart young men, are moulded by very smart impresarios. It's an old story.
But in Manny's case, there is an endemic innocence which really does help you believe in him. A clear and sparkling directness to his eyes, which attracts and holds you. And there is a bank of evidence that he transcends boxing, and uses it for good, much as Ali did. Indeed, there's an argument for Manny as The Greatest. Like Ali, not purely because of his remarkable achievements within the ring.
Floyd won. But did he? Doubt remains on the richness of Floyd's life. He has the money, the medals, the belts, and an empire of associated bling. But is that all there is to it? Is his quest, in contrast to Manny's, purely a multi storey edifice of ego? An empty building? I can't help but imagine Floyd in his 22,000 square feet mansion, all alone, in his silly oversized bling baseball hat. Alone.
Even if I am as suckered into simplicity, as Manny was suckered by his own attacking style in the ring, I cannot help but reflect on what messages for humanity this fight has. Is it that endeavour is glorified solely by the bling it buys? Is money or winning really everything? Or, as I'd want to believe, is money a kind of trivia, with other values the true measures of a life well lived, a winning beyond winning?
I see MIDAS TOUCH, inevitably painted on the stern of the boat in gold. Again, I greet it with a wry smile. And a little sadness.
Monday, 27 April 2015
Wednesday, 8 April 2015
DOGGING
Yesterday on a cycling / hiking expedition with mini Madam and half a dozen of her friends.
SELF IMPORTANT DOG WALKER: (who could see jolly well we didn't)... you haven't got a dog with you have you?
ME: .......................
SIDW: It's just that he (dog) doesn't like other dogs. He's fine with people.
ME: You haven't got a bicycle with you, have you?
SIDW: No ...... (puzzled).... why?
ME: It's this bike, you see. Bit fearsome around other bicycles.
SIDW: ...........................................
SELF IMPORTANT DOG WALKER: (who could see jolly well we didn't)... you haven't got a dog with you have you?
ME: .......................
SIDW: It's just that he (dog) doesn't like other dogs. He's fine with people.
ME: You haven't got a bicycle with you, have you?
SIDW: No ...... (puzzled).... why?
ME: It's this bike, you see. Bit fearsome around other bicycles.
SIDW: ...........................................
Tuesday, 7 April 2015
RELATIONSHIP FIRST AID
It is surprisingly difficult to be simple about what we feel.
Asked, "what do you feel?" most people answer, starting with the words, "I think...."
That's different.
Another tendency is to state feelings using past participles. "I feel disappointed. I feel rejected. I feel ...... -ed". There's a problem with this as feedback. The recipient will hear it as blame. And that may be because it actually is blame, though euphemised.
I have heard it proposed that there are only four core feelings, abbreviated as mad, sad, glad and scared. This may be a slightly simplistic view, but nonetheless a good starting point in using disclosure of feelings as a means of improving relationship.
Since most people do not act deliberately to hurt others, declarations of feelings help press the reset button in relationships where this has happened.
I teach many of my coaching victims a simple practice, to mend relationship issues, and it is often very helpful.
It is scripted thus: "(this) has happened between us and I feel (this). What I want to happen is (this)".
Over, then, to the other.
Simple, assertive, blame free.
Often surprisingly difficult to get to.
Asked, "what do you feel?" most people answer, starting with the words, "I think...."
That's different.
Another tendency is to state feelings using past participles. "I feel disappointed. I feel rejected. I feel ...... -ed". There's a problem with this as feedback. The recipient will hear it as blame. And that may be because it actually is blame, though euphemised.
I have heard it proposed that there are only four core feelings, abbreviated as mad, sad, glad and scared. This may be a slightly simplistic view, but nonetheless a good starting point in using disclosure of feelings as a means of improving relationship.
Since most people do not act deliberately to hurt others, declarations of feelings help press the reset button in relationships where this has happened.
I teach many of my coaching victims a simple practice, to mend relationship issues, and it is often very helpful.
It is scripted thus: "(this) has happened between us and I feel (this). What I want to happen is (this)".
Over, then, to the other.
Simple, assertive, blame free.
Often surprisingly difficult to get to.
Friday, 3 April 2015
PHEASANTS
Someone wrote that no pheasant has ever done anything interesting. Perhaps that's why I've stopped avoiding them and now just run them over.
A friend of mine got his car all entangled with a pheasant, just before arriving to drop his son off at school. Conscious of the image problem, he rummaged to try and get the pheasant out of the radiator grille. This made matters worse, because the corpse would not come. He tugged and yanked at the dead creature but was rewarded only with a facial and bodily spray of pheasant blood, guts and feathers. As the school bell rang, he attracted shocked parental stares. A murderer in the playground. Further evidence of the horror of this man's character could be attained from a glance at his car, the mangled remains now wrenched across most of its bonnet, as well as hanging from its front bumper. Not a good look.
"But they're so stupid," he might have said, by way of defence. "They strut out stubbornly right into the path of your car."
Pheasants play a bizarre game of "chicken" with motor vehicles, asserting their right to strut nonchalantly wherever they will, even in the face of a 2 litre engine, a tonne or so of metal and a couple of hefty Goodyears. They know they are right, until, well..... the end.
Some years ago I knew a man who wore a cravat. He was what I would call old. He was in fact, I suppose, in his sixties. But it wasn't the age that defined him. It was the certainty of his views. He knew what he thought, about anything. And what he didn't know, he didn't want to know. He knew enough to know what he knew, and to know it was enough. It was this certainty, this lack of curiosity, which marked his age. To me, that kind of certainty marks out old people. You can have the experience of visiting an old folk's home with people in their mid twenties. And you can bathe in the joys of youth with eighty year olds.
The cravat was worn rather as the extravagant colours of a cock pheasant. His wife, whom I have difficulty remembering, was of the invisibly brown tendency. As far as I can recall, she habitually agreed with her husband.
I meet quite a lot of people like this. Externally colourful, perhaps. But within, deeply conservative, deeply certain, deeply incurious.
I find myself now at a point of my life where some options open upon what I may focus, to what I may dedicate myself, over the next few years. A junction point. There are no guideposts. I am uncertain which way to go. And that uncertainty is not only within the decision, but also written into the chosen route, as an energy for propulsion along it, once chosen. Uncertainty, curiosity and wonder may serve. They may make for a more interesting time than pheasant-like certainty. May, indeed, be the elixir of youth. No matter how old one gets.
A friend of mine got his car all entangled with a pheasant, just before arriving to drop his son off at school. Conscious of the image problem, he rummaged to try and get the pheasant out of the radiator grille. This made matters worse, because the corpse would not come. He tugged and yanked at the dead creature but was rewarded only with a facial and bodily spray of pheasant blood, guts and feathers. As the school bell rang, he attracted shocked parental stares. A murderer in the playground. Further evidence of the horror of this man's character could be attained from a glance at his car, the mangled remains now wrenched across most of its bonnet, as well as hanging from its front bumper. Not a good look.
"But they're so stupid," he might have said, by way of defence. "They strut out stubbornly right into the path of your car."
Pheasants play a bizarre game of "chicken" with motor vehicles, asserting their right to strut nonchalantly wherever they will, even in the face of a 2 litre engine, a tonne or so of metal and a couple of hefty Goodyears. They know they are right, until, well..... the end.
Some years ago I knew a man who wore a cravat. He was what I would call old. He was in fact, I suppose, in his sixties. But it wasn't the age that defined him. It was the certainty of his views. He knew what he thought, about anything. And what he didn't know, he didn't want to know. He knew enough to know what he knew, and to know it was enough. It was this certainty, this lack of curiosity, which marked his age. To me, that kind of certainty marks out old people. You can have the experience of visiting an old folk's home with people in their mid twenties. And you can bathe in the joys of youth with eighty year olds.
The cravat was worn rather as the extravagant colours of a cock pheasant. His wife, whom I have difficulty remembering, was of the invisibly brown tendency. As far as I can recall, she habitually agreed with her husband.
I meet quite a lot of people like this. Externally colourful, perhaps. But within, deeply conservative, deeply certain, deeply incurious.
I find myself now at a point of my life where some options open upon what I may focus, to what I may dedicate myself, over the next few years. A junction point. There are no guideposts. I am uncertain which way to go. And that uncertainty is not only within the decision, but also written into the chosen route, as an energy for propulsion along it, once chosen. Uncertainty, curiosity and wonder may serve. They may make for a more interesting time than pheasant-like certainty. May, indeed, be the elixir of youth. No matter how old one gets.
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